Page 9 of Her Sloth

I also loosen my hair, wiggle through it to mess it a bit, and put on a cap, so the bangs fall into my face and the rest is hidden by the cap. I don’t know the people here and don’t want to be recognized straight away.

I drive all the way through Manhattan, through a tunnel into Brooklyn.

The Mustang is a beauty, purring dangerously around me. I wonder how she’ll do in a race.

The area gets more industrial: old buildings with graffiti on them, construction fences, small one-way streets, and many exit ways. I check the area and clock it, just in case a quick getaway is needed.

I turn into Ferris Street.

Behind a green fence lights are dancing and loud music trails into my ears as I let down the window.

I roll up to a gate.

I am stopped by two guys with guns in their hands. I know the scene, and I know protection is needed.

“Who are you?” one of them asks.

“Addy,” I say. “One of Tommy’s.”

They whisper to each other, nod, and open the gate.

I drive into the empty lot, now filled with cars of all different kinds. What I recognize momentarily is that it’s mostly classics, except for a Nissan GTR. Back in L.A., we have a lot more plastic cans—at least that’s what I call the imports. My heart will always beat for the classics, and it feels like coming home as I roll down between them.

People look at me more than I’d like.

Do they recognize me?

I park the car at the end of a line and get out, carefully assessing the situation.

“Beer?” asks a male voice from behind as I close the door.

“Sure,” I say, turning, only to recognize the man as the guy I once won a car from.

“Dominion,” I say. “Long time no see.”

He holds out the beer for me to take.

“What brings you to the city?” he asks. “Last time I checked, you were back in L.A.”

“Still am, needed some air,” I say shortly, taking a sip.

“Is she yours?” I ask, tilting my head toward a blue 1986 Porsche.

“She is,” he says. “Took me years to recover after your little stunt.”

“I told you to rest it,” I say and laugh. “Your mouth was too big.”

“Apparently,” he says, opening the back of the Porsche to show me the motor.

“She is a beauty,” I say as I take a closer look at the motor. “I see you went all in with the Steve Wong.”

“I have,” he says. “Forged pistons, too. Rebuild it to a 3.4.”

“Nice,” I say and slide my fingers down into the motor to check the leads. I have a special love for older Porsches. “She’s not even leaking a tiny bit.”

The love I have for classics is something beyond anyone else can imagine. Their scent. Their sound. Their rawness. Nothing else comes close to this.

“Took good care of her.”