Beans got up, turned around twice, and flopped back down with a big dog sigh.

“Are we waiting for your sphincter to relax?” I asked Hooker.

“I don’t feel comfortable with this. I don’t like the car sitting out in the driveway. I know lots of people never use their garage, but this feels off somehow. And I can’t see Bernie driving a gray Taurus.”

Miller’s garage door slid open, and we both scrunched down in our seats. A car engine cranked over in Bernie’s garage. Horse jogged out of the garage and got into the Taurus. The Taurus engine caught, and the car backed out of the driveway and idled in front of Miller’s house. A blue Lexus sedan backed out of the garage, the garage door slid closed, and the Lexus pulled into the street and rolled past the Taurus. Bernie wasn’t driving the Lexus. Baldy was driving the Lexus.

“This isn’t doing anything for my sphincter,” Hooker said. “In fact, my nuts just went north.”

We followed the Taurus and the Lexus out of the subdivision, south on Odell School Road. After a couple miles the two cars pulled off Odell, onto a rutted dirt road that disappeared into a patch of woods. It was the sort of road used by kids for drinking beer, and smoking weed, and getting unexpectedly pregnant. Hooker cruised past the road and parked in a driveway that belonged to a small yellow-and-white ranch-style house. There was a bike and a plastic wading pool in the front yard. It was November and the pool was empty. We were maybe an eighth of a mile beyond the dirt road.

“Now what?” I asked.

Hooker swiveled in his seat and looked back at Odell. “We sit and wait. I don’t think that dirt road goes anywhere.”

Ten minutes later the two cars reappeared, turned back onto Odell, and continued south, driving past us without so much as a sideways glance. Hooker put the SUV in gear, and followed them.

The air was still cool, but the sky was no longer blue. Clouds had pushed in overhead and threatened rain. The Lexus took Derita Road, and the Taurus followed. We drove past the entrance to the airport. The NASCAR corporate building was to our right. The two cars continued on and finally turned onto Concord Mills Boulevard and minutes later drove into the mall parking lot.

Concord Mills is a monstrous mall. Over two hundred stores, a twenty-four-screen theater, race-car simulators, an indoor and outdoor go-cart track. It was a Saturday, early afternoon, and the lot was packed. The Lexus driver didn’t mess with trying to find a good spot. He went straight to the end of a line of cars where there was room to park. The Taurus parked next to him, both men got out, and they took off for the mall.

We were a row over.

“This is strange,” Hooker said. “Huevo’s henchmen driving two cars, one of which I’m guessing belongs to Bernie, and they go shopping.”

“Maybe it’s not Bernie’s car. Maybe these guys are staying with Bernie, and they’re driving their own cars. Maybe Bernie’s deeper in this mess than we originally thought.”

A drizzling rain had started misting onto the windshield. Hooker had his phone in one hand and the Dunkin’ Donuts napkin with Miller’s address and phone number on it in the other hand. He punched Miller’s number in and waited.

“No answer,” Hooker finally said.

We cut our eyes to the Lexus.

“Maybe Miller’s subleasing his house to the thugs,” I said.

Hooker nodded. “I guess that’s possible.”

We unbuckled our seat belts, got out of the SUV, walked over to the Lexus, and looked inside. Nothing out of the ordinary. Clean. No Dunkin’ Donuts napkins.

“Nice car,” I said, looking it over. “Except it’s got a drip in the rear.” I bent to take a closer look. “Uh-oh.”

“What uh-oh?”

“The drip is red, and I think it’s coming from inside the trunk.”

Hooker came over and squatted next to me. “Uh-oh.” He stood and knocked on the trunk. “Hello?”

No one answered.

Hooker ran his fingers around the trunk. “We need to get this open.”

I tried the driver’s-side door. Open. The morons hadn’t locked the car. I reached inside and popped the trunk.

“Double uh-oh,” Hooker said when the trunk lid popped up.

The red drips were coming from Bernie Miller. He was curled up in the trunk, and he’d been shot…everywhere.

“I wish I wasn’t looking at this,” I said to Hooker.

“You aren’t going to hurl or faint or get hysterical, are you?”

I chewed on my bottom lip. “I might.”

“Look on the positive side. One less guy to beat the crap out of.”

“Yeah, but it’s a crime against nature to do this to a Lexus. The trunk upholstery is going to be ruined.”

This was my best shot at bravado. The alternative was uncontrollable weeping.

Hooker closed the lid. “These guys are stepping up the house cleaning. Since they loaded Bernie into his car and shot him off his property, I’m guessing they were going to make him disappear. The question of the day is…why have they parked him here?”

I glanced back at the mall entrance just as Horse and Baldy came out. They were each holding coffee-to-go cups.

“Looks like they parked him here so they could get their triple-shot cappuccinos,” I said to Hooker.

“Man, that’s harsh. Shoot a guy and then park him so you can get a cup of coffee. That’s so Sopranos.”

The rain had changed from misting to definitely raining, and the men were hustling toward us, heads down, getting wet. We ducked down and scuttled behind a van.

“You should make a citizen’s arrest,” I whispered to Hooker. “This is our big chance. We can catch them red-handed. Where’s your gun?”

“In the SUV.”

Huevo’s men were between us and the SUV.

“Do we have a plan that doesn’t involve a gun?” Hooker asked.

“You could call the police.”

Hooker looked over at the SUV, and his mouth tightened a little at the corners. “Do we have a plan that doesn’t involve a phone?”

The two Huevo men got into their cars, backed out of their parking slots, and drove away. Hooker and I ran for the SUV, and in seconds we were out in the drive lane, moving in the same direction as the Lexus. The rain was slanting in, the windshield wipers beating it away. I was forward in my seat, trying to see.

“I’ve lost them,” I said to Hooker. “I can’t see through the rain.”

Hooker was stuck in traffic. “I can’t see them either, and I can’t move. It starts raining and people get nuts.”

I had the phone in my hand, debating a police call. I had no license numbers to give them. And I had no credibility. The rain was washing the blood off the pavement.

Beans was on his feet and panting. Hooker cracked the windows for him, but Beans kept huffing.

“He probably needs to tinkle,” I said to Hooker. “Or worse.”

Hooker inched his way out of the lot, got back onto Concord Mills Boulevard, and pulled off when he saw an island of grass. Five minutes later, Beans and Hooker were back in the car, and they were both soaking wet.

“This sucks,” Hooker said. “We need to do something to turn this around, because it just keeps getting worse, and I’m losing my good mood.”

“Maybe you need lunch.” Food solved all problems in my family.

Concord Mills Boulevard crosses Route 85 and becomes Speedway Boulevard. Every possible fast-food chain has a spot on that stretch of road. Hooker took us to a drive-thru window, and we ordered bags of food. Then we cleverly concealed ourselves behind fogged windows and sheets of rain in the Cracker Barrel parking lot.

I filled our stolen motel ice bucket with water for Beans and gave him a bunch of burgers. Hooker and I had shakes and fries and burgers.

Hooker ate the last of the fries and slurped up the last of his shake. “It’s amazing how consuming large quantities of salt and artery-clogging fat always makes me feel happy,” Hooker said.

“Don’t get too happy. We have lots of problems.”