Dillon got under the wheel. “I guess I’ll drive,” he said.
The Packard was good. Dillon knew it would be. Out on a good stretch of road he worked it up to eighty-five. It held the road without a roll, and he guessed with a little tuning he could squeeze some more speed out of it.
They drove back to the garage in silence. Mabley was smug with certainty. When Dillon nailed the Packard, and they got out, Mabley said, “Didn’t I tell you?… That bus can move.”
Dillon said, “You’re right. She’s a bit too fast, if anythin’.”
Mabley raised his hands. “Gawd!” he groaned. “Ain’t you ever happy?”
Dillon broke in, “Now, come on, we ain’t got all day. How much?”
Mabley leant against the fender. “Two thousand bucks, an’ it’s cheap at the price,” he said.
Dillon stared at Myra. “Did you hear him?” he gasped. “Two thousand bucks for that old heap?”
He turned to Mabley. “We don’t want your garage, we want the car, see?”
Mabley shrugged. “I tell you it’s cheap,” he said firmly.