“Punks,” he repeated. He had a faint accent that didn’t sound Russian. He could have come from Chicago or Philly or Detroit or New Jersey. To Timmy he sounded American, nothing more.
The punks had no interest in the kind of sick installation Alex had done in his own car, a rebuilt Golf hatchback: custom subwoofer mounts in fantastical shapes, wood frames he’d cut himself and covered in fiberglass. And so it was boredom, ultimately, that had brought him to this body shop in North Quincy, owned by a distant cousin. The cousin let him use it nights and weekends, on the DL, to do his real work.
His real work, his money work, was building traps.
He led Timmy to a newish Toyota Camry, parked at the rear of the shop. “This is just an example,” he said. “Your job will be a little different. Every customization is unique. No two vehicles have same code.”
A Camry was the one car Timmy could think of that was even lamer than a Civic.
He thought, I should’ve bought a Camry.
“Basically there’s four steps,” said Alex. “You got to do them in the exact order or it won’t work. First all the doors got to be closed. If you have that driver door open, it’s not going to work. So like if you get pulled over, that cop, he’s not going to search your car with all the doors closed. Meaning he ain’t going to find shit.”
“Doors closed,” said Timmy. “Got it.”
“Then you sit in the driver’s seat,” said Alex. “There’s a pressure sensor in the seat so it knows if someone is there.”
They got into the car, Alex behind the wheel, Timmy beside him in the passenger seat. “Next you turn on the rear defroster,” said Alex, switching it on. “But here’s the key thing: at the same time, you got to push these two.” He indicated the switches for the front and rear passenger-side windows.
Timmy pressed one switch, then the other.
“No, at the same t-time.” The kid was jazzed, nearly trembling with some weird manic excitement.
“Like this?” Timmy said, holding down both switches.
“Yeah, but you messed up the order, so you got start again from the beginning. Watch.”
Alex demonstrated again, flicking on the defroster while holding down the two window switches.
“That’s it?” said Timmy.
“No. Now you got to swipe the card.” He took a white plastic card from his chest pocket and swiped it across the center air-conditioning vent.
On the passenger side of the dashboard, a compartment opened soundlessly, in the spot where an airbag would go.
“Holy shit.” Timmy peered into the compartment. It wasn’t big, but big enough. “What’s that inside it? Wood?”
“Cork,” said Alex. “It soaks up the smell.”
“Goddamn. That is some James Bond shit.”
The kid fidgeted. Timmy saw in that moment how young he was, proud of what he’d built but mistrustful of praise.
“How much is all this going to set me back?”
“The base cost is eight grand. That’s for two compartments. If you need more than two, that’s extra.”
“Eight?” said Timmy. “Andy told me five.”
“It was five last year. Now it’s eight.”
There was no point in haggling. Timmy saw that he had no leverage in this negotiation. He said, “I only brought five.”
Alex frowned, deliberating.
“I could take half up front,” he said grudgingly—as though he were going out on a limb, as though he wouldn’t have an entire fucking car as collateral.