Dan took the offered hand. “Dan Torrance.”
Billy Freeman eyed the duffel. “Just got off the bus, I ’magine. Or are you ridin your thumb?”
“Bus,” Dan said. “What does this thing have for an engine?”
“Well now, that’s interesting. Probably never heard of the Chevrolet Veraneio, didja?”
He hadn’t, but knew anyway. Because Freeman knew. Dan didn’t think he’d had such a clear shine in years. It brought a ghost of delight that went back to earliest childhood, before he had discovered how dangerous the shining could be.
“Brazilian Suburban, wasn’t it? Turbodiesel.”
Freeman’s bushy eyebrows shot up and he grinned. “Goddam right! Casey Kingsley, he’s the boss, bought it at an auction last year. It’s a corker. Pulls like a sonofabytch. The instrument panel’s from a Suburban, too. The seats I put in myself.”
The shine was fading now, but Dan got one last thing. “From a GTO Judge.”
Freeman beamed. “That’s right. Found em in a junkyard over Sunapee way. The shifter’s a high-hat from a 1961 Mack. Nine-speed. Nice, huh? You lookin for work or just lookin?”