Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

His sister’s big-shot boyfriend — Sangriff — thought Jags were boss. Top down, showing off his third-degree tan like some kind of South American sun god, he’d pick up Jeff’s sister and take her tooling around until all hours, to places Mom would have shrieked to hear about had it not been the golden boy courting her daughter. Make enough trips south of the border, anybody’d look golden and glossy, Jeff tried to tell Sis. But all she could see were the fancy presents Sangriff brought back, big-shot international trader that he was. What exactly was Sangriff trading, Jeff had wondered. Nobody made that much money in a legit business.

He stood up to polish the Chevy’s side mirror and watched Packet stride toward his blue and white squad car, parked near all the clunkers with oil or transmission leaks on the grass where drips wouldn’t show. Leaning across the front seat, the cop scooped up the radio’s hand mike and relayed the Jaguar’s license number. Faint static issued as somebody replied.

Jeff listened hard, wishing he could think of a reason to amble closer, but Murley would fine him an extra hour of unpaid overtime if he caught Jeff slacking. The fat old man had moved to the front bumper of the Jaguar, giving the car a wily eye that meant he was scheming something, probably trying to figure a way to turn a dollar from his unlikely stroke of luck before Providence teed up for another swing.

Murley didn’t miss a trick when it came to wheeling and dealing. But Jeff had to give the man his due, he wasn’t as greedy as other dealers along used car row. Murley never sold a car without a seventy-two-hour warranty, never repossessed one until a payment was three days late. And Jeff was grateful for having a weekend job that didn’t cut too deep into his school work. Mom wouldn’t have let him keep it otherwise.

Reaching inside the Chevy, Jeff started the engine, as if he hadn’t already warmed up all the cars so they’d start fast and run smooth. Then he lifted the hood and pretended to tinker. Actually, the idle did sound a little rocky, like maybe the carb was mixing too rich. Jeff adjusted it, then switched off the engine and began to detail the already detailed interior.

“You know an Arnold Tanninger?” The officer’s hard-soled shoes crunched across the shell.

Jeff slid nearer the window, skimming an Armor All rag over the dash pad.

“Don’t recall knowing anyone by that name,” Murley said. “Unless maybe a customer from some time back. Paid cash, maybe. Nobody I’m holding paper on now.”

“Tanninger’s a parolee, petty theft, suspected of small-time drug dealing. Last known address is less than a mile from here.”

“Petty theft?” Murley’s tone was incredulous. “And this car belongs to him?”

“The plates belong to a car registered to Tanninger. An Olds-mobile Cutlass.”

“You mean the car and the plates don’t match.” Murley’s eyebrows dipped together like two caterpillars at a square dance.

Footsteps crunched closer, and Jeff peeked out to see the officer standing a few feet away, looking at the Jaguar’s door, thumbs tucked under his belt, lips thinned to an exasperated slash in his lean face. He wants to look inside, Jeff thought, examine the car for clues, bumper to bumper. That’s what I’d do. But first he’ll run the chassis number. That will take longer than the plates, and he’ll have to open the Jaguar to find it.

“Got a slim jim inside, you want to jimmy that lock,” Murley said.

The officer darted him a stern look.

“Hell,” Murley hedged, “customers always locking keys inside their car, wanting us to get ’em out.” He shrugged his thick shoulders.

The officer turned his frown back on the car door.

“So,” Murley said, “you think this guy Tanninger stole the Jag, put his own plates on it, then dumped it here with a slashed tire?”

“We’ve got somebody checking on Tanninger,” the officer said.

Jeff could have told them where to find Arnold Tanninger — pumping gas at the Exxon four blocks down. When he wasn’t pumping gas, he was peddling crack. Tanninger had caught up with Jeff one day leaving the schoolyard after a hassle with the phys. ed. coach.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tanninger’s smelly arm snaking around Jeff’s shoulders. “That was a bum deal you got back there.”

Jeff tried to shrug him off, but the arm stuck like nettles.

“Kinda stuff gets you down,” Tanninger said. “Coach got on my case, too. Kicked me out, so I set myself up in business. Who needs school when you can make more bread on the street than any of those suits in their high-rise cages? Whatcha say we hang out, get mellow, talk some business?”

“Get lost,” Jeff had told him, adrenaline still rushing from the hassle over his American history grades. No pass, no play. He was doing fine in his other subjects, but what use was memorizing dates of old wars and treaties and such?

Tanninger pulled out a knife, a nasty thing with a short curved blade. “Why you laying down that kinda shit, kiddo, hen I’m trying to be nice to you?”