Engel had seen that Chevrolet before. But the last time he’d been driving the damn thing, and this time he was put in the back seat to play passenger. One of the messengers got in with him, his hand staying warily near his jacket lapel. The other one got behind the wheel.
The boy at the wheel was named Gittel and the one next to Engel in the back was called Fox. They were good professional muscle, constantly on loan to Pittsburgh or Seattle or Detroit, and Engel had known them both for years.
Gittel started the car and it stalled and he said several things. Engel said, “It’s standard shift. I was driving this car last night.”
“Shut up,” said Fox conversationally.
Gittel, starting the car again, said through clenched teeth, “When we’re done with Engel, I’m goin round a little bit with that bastard Kenny.”
“He couldn’t do any better for me either,” said Engel. “It isn’t his fault.”
“Shut up,” Fox offered, “or I’ll break your head.”
Engel looked at him. “I thought I was your friend.”
“I got a dog instead.”