Free Set the Night on Fire by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page B

Wainwright.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Dar Gantner.”
    She stuck out her hand and giggled again. “Nice to meet you.”
    He raised her hand to his face and guided it down his cheek.
    “You keep doing that and I’ll never make it to work.”
    “Would that be so bad?”
    She gently pulled her hand away. The coffee was ready. She poured it into mugs, then, without asking, dumped a truckload of sugar in both. She held out the mug to him. “What about you? Where do you work?”
    He sipped the coffee. It was so sweet his teeth itched. He set down the mug. “I wash dishes at the cafeteria. And I don’t like sugar in my coffee.”
    She pretended to pout. “Is this our first fight?”
    “Just a request.”
    She hesitated, then dumped out his mug, poured more coffee, and handed it to him. “You’re a dishwasher?”
    He kept his mouth shut.
    Then, “How long were you inside?”
    He took a sip of his unsweetened coffee. “I need a favor, Cece.”
    “I’m listening.”
    “I need to borrow your car.”
    Her eyebrows rose sky high.
    “I’m not going to steal it.”
    “And I know that because . . . ”
    He looked at her, his mind full of unspoken pleas, rationales. He broke eye contact. “You’re right. I did have some trouble. And it looks like it’s finding me again. But I’ve never been a thief.”
    “You did time.” He nodded. “A lot, by the looks of you.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I told you. You have the look.” She cupped both hands around her mug. “I can find out who you are and what you did. We have claims investigators, remember? They find out all sorts of things about people. All I have to do is ask.”
    “I’ll make it even easier for you. I’ll give you the name and number of my parole officer. If I don’t come back with your car, you can have me thrown in jail.”
    “I just might.”
    “But just remember . . . if I’m in jail, I won’t be able to tell you how beautiful you are and how you saved my soul last night.”
    She looked as if she wanted to smile but was holding it back. “Are you always such a smooth talker?”
    He smiled.
    “How long since you’ve driven a car?” 
    “About forty years.”
    Her mouth opened. “Are you crazy? Where do you need to go?”
    “Winnetka.”
    “You have a driver’s license?”
    He kept his mouth shut.
    “Christ! If I do let you borrow it, and assuming you don’t total it, when were you planning to bring it back?”
    “How about if I pick you up at the end of the day?”
    “What makes you think I want to see you again?”
    He wasn’t fooled. “Because . . . ” He stroked her hand, waited for her to put down the mug. Then he raised her hand to his lips. He wondered if she felt the same thrill. “ . . . we’re not finished.”
    As his mouth moved over her fingers, she smiled. A real smile, this time. “No.” Her voice was husky. “We’re not.”
     
    * *
     
    It took Dar a few minutes to get the feel of driving again. The car, a black, four-door Honda, was easy enough to maneuver, but the volume of traffic on the road and the speed with which it sped past was unnerving. Where had all these cars come from? Gas cost six times as much as it used to, yet many of the cars were bigger than a VW van. More powerful, too. He’d read about the ocean of debt American consumers were drowning in. These had to be one of the reasons why.
    He’d Googled Casey’s address at the library but didn’t know how to get there. The librarian helped him print out a map, which instructed him to drive north on 294 to Willow, then head east. Thirty minutes later, he entered Winnetka. As he wound through village streets, he gazed at the huge houses, the wide snow-covered lawns, the genteel affluence. This was where the establishment lived. He drove past a street with so many trees that the bare branches made a lacy brocade against the sky. Casey had lived here, in the maw of the enemy. Clearly his old friend had changed.
    He headed toward