Woke up at noon and got straight to work.
I texted Zen first.
Me: i need someone who does clean vins. local
Zen: give me an hour
He sent an address forty minutes later. No name, no context. Just an address in Compton and a thumbs up.
Good enough.
* * *
I called the local seller before I did anything else. Guy had a 2020 Scat Pack sitting wrecked in his driveway, front end caved in, airbags gone. He'd been asking six thousand. I told him I'd give him four, cash, today, and I could tow it myself so he didn't have to deal with it. He sat on that for about thirty seconds and said fine.
Four thousand. I'd already done the math. Vegas car plus this one plus the shop work plus wrap and paint came out to just under fourteen. I had fifteen. It was tight but it worked.
I booked the flight. Next morning, 7 AM, McCarran and back same day.
Then I spent the rest of the afternoon getting everything pre-staged. Called Zen's shop and told them what was coming and when. Bought wrap, primer, a few cans of touch-up. The car was going to have to look different fast. Color, plates, anything visible from the street. You don't drive something hot looking exactly like it looked when it disappeared.
* * *
Vegas was an in-and-out.
I Ubered from the airport to a McDonald's two blocks from the address, same move as the Hellcat job. Walked over. The car was sitting in a driveway exactly where the listing said it would be. 2019 Scat Pack, Destroyer Grey, low miles, looked clean.
The seller came out. Late thirties maybe, big guy, friendly he talked a lot. He walked me around the car like he was proud of it. Pointed out the tires. Opened the hood and gestured at the engine like I wouldn't know what I was looking at.
I kept my face neutral and let him talk.
The whole time I was running through it. If he was a cop this whole thing ended here. I was a minor. I could play dumb. Ignorant kid who saw a deal online, came to look, didn't know anything about any title issue. That was a defensible position as long as I hadn't touched paperwork yet.
But the longer he talked the more I doubted it. A cop running this kind of sting would be tighter. Better story, less rambling, more pressure. This guy was either completely clean and just selling a stolen car he didn't know was stolen, which happened, or he was the most relaxed undercover in the history of law enforcement.
I went with option one.
I handed him the cash. He handed me the keys and the title. We shook hands. He went back inside.
I got in and drove to the airport and turned the car in at the rental lot next door, which wasn't a rental lot, it was just an empty row where I'd arranged for Zen's guy to pick it up on a flatbed that afternoon.
Ubered back. Flew home. Wheels down by 4 PM.
* * *
The shop worked fast.
VIN plates swapped front to back, wrecked car's documentation transferred over, numbers filed where they needed to be filed. Zen's guy knew what he was doing and didn't need me to explain anything twice. While they worked the mechanical side I handled the cosmetics. Pulled the Destroyer Grey wrap off and laid down a matte black over two days. Swapped the stock wheels for a set of staggered 20s I'd been holding onto. Tinted the windows a shade darker.
By day three it didn't look like the same car.
Day four I drove it to the DMV.
* * *
Sat in the waiting room for forty minutes watching a woman try to explain her situation to a clerk who had clearly stopped caring sometime in 2014. When my number came up I walked to the window, put the paperwork down, answered three questions, paid the fee.
Walked out with a registration sticker.
I sat in the Scat Pack in the DMV parking lot for a minute. 485 horsepower, widebody, matte black, legal on paper. Mine.
I started it up.
The 392 sounded completely different from the 350Z. Deeper, heavier, more chest than throat. The Z was loud and sharp and wanted you to know it. The Scat Pack just sat there at idle and rumbled like it was bored and could wait as long as it needed to.
I pulled out of the lot and drove home the long way.
* * *
Mom was in the kitchen when I came through the door.
She looked at me. Looked out the window at the driveway. Looked back at me.
"There are two cars in my driveway."
"Yeah."
"Jordan."
"Mom."
She put down whatever she was holding. "How do you make so much money?"
I had the answer ready. I had been sitting on it for a while actually, waiting for this exact conversation.
"You know how shops quote people for repairs and parts and the labor is like half the total?"
"Okay."
"I do the same work for half what they charge. I buy the parts myself so the customer pays me directly, no markup on parts. Just labor at half rate." I shrugged. "Word gets around. People refer their people. It adds up."
She looked at me for a long moment. Trying to find the hole in it.
There wasn't one. It was a real thing people did. It was exactly the kind of hustle that sounded right coming out of my mouth. Plausible, practical, something she could picture me doing.
"You need to be reporting that income," she said finally.
"I know. I will."
"I mean it."
"I hear you, Mom."
She looked out the window at the Scat Pack one more time. Then she picked up what she was holding and went back to what she was doing.
I went to my room.
Lay back on my bed.
Two cars in the driveway.
I closed my eyes and let that sit for a second.
END OF CHAPTER SEVENTEEN