So here was the plan.

Every morning around six-thirty, Billy would drive over to the park and wait, perched in the oak tree, hidden by all the leaves and brush. He’d bide his time, drink a cup of coffee, do the crossword puzzle until it was close to J-time. Then he’d pick up his gun and stare out through the scope, waiting for Jacopetti’s station wagon to travel over the second bypass road. Most of the time, Jacopetti would make the light: That couldn’t be helped, because the traffic light favored the road, which meant it was green most of the time. But odds had to have it that one time- one itty-bitty time-Jacopetti would miss the light. Then he’d have to wait at the intersection, even if it was just for a moment.

That was all Billy needed: a single moment to clip him.

After the pop, he’d simply scale down from his arboreal hiding spot, jump into Sal, and tear out the back way, dumping the gun while speeding through the park. Then he’d hook up with the first bypass road, which led out to the highway, where he’d be free and clear.

He’d wait a couple days, then pay Mr. Barton a quick visit.

With this final and fruitful score put to bed, he’d be off the radar. It would be retirement from his old life, sunbathing in Florida or Ma-li-bu or someplace with an ocean.

Free and clear with bread falling out of his pockets.

That was the plan.

The first week, Jacopetti made the light, flying through the intersection at high speed. The second week, Jacopetti made the light five times in a row. Third week, same story. Billy was getting pissed.

To make up for the supreme waste of time he had passed perched in a tree getting needles in his ass, he decided to pack a bender over the weekend, drowning out his bad luck with Scotch and sodas. So it was as hard as hell to wake up Monday morning. Even with the money incentive looming large in the back of his mind, Billy was groggy with a hangover and in a foul mood. He managed a quick shower, then put on a polo shirt, a pair of chinos, and sandals without socks. He packed his gun in the waistband of his pants, locked the door to his apartment, and then went underground to fetch Sal from her parking space.

From the moment Billy fired up Sal’s ignition, he was on autopilot. Going through the route without thinking about it until the unexpected happened. At 6:22 on a muggy summer morning, eight minutes before Billy’s arrival at the nature reserve, Sal stalled.

“Shit!” Billy proclaimed. “This is all I fucking need.”

He tried again.

The engine kicked in, but as soon as he slipped the transmission into drive, it died.

“Fuckin’-A shit!” Billy popped the latch for the hood and got out of the car. He stared at the engine block. Nothing was smoking, and the fluids looked okay. He checked the tubes, then the wires. Everything seemed in working order.

So what’s up with that?

He got back inside, slamming the door, and tried the ignition again.

The engine spat out a few helpless coughs and then died.

“Fuck!” Billy pounded the dashboard.

Sal said, “Cut it out!”

Billy’s heart started racing, his eyes widening as he sat up and jerked his head from side to side.

What the fuck was that?

Calm down, Billy! You’re hearing things.

Okay, okay, try the motor again.

He tried the motor again. It was silent, as dead as his last whack in Jersey.

This time he slapped the steering wheel.

“Ouch!” Sal protested. “Whatcha doin’, Billy? Why you takin’ out your frustration on me?”

This time Billy sat still, his hands balled up into fists. “Who said that?”

“Who do you think said that?” Sal said. “You think it’s the trees talkin’ or something?”

Billy’s eyes darted from side to side, but he remained motionless. “Who… are… you?”

“You have to ask?” Sal said. “We only been partners for, like, ten years. I, for one, am insulted. And while I got your attention, stop slammin’ the door. Just like you, I ain’t as young as I used to be.”

Billy swallowed hard. “Sal?”

“Fuckin’ bingo! Can we get out of here? We ain’t gonna get anything done today.”

Billy sat up in the seat. He shook his head several times, knocked on his forehead. “Let me get this right. You’re Sal… my car… and you’re talking to me.”

“Ain’t no one else here.”

Throwing back his shoulders, Billy opened and closed his mouth. He checked the CD player. It was empty. The radio was off.

What the H is going on?

If you can’t beat it, join it. Billy decided to play along. “Cars don’t talk.”

“Guess again,” Sal said. “Look, Billy, I understand your confusion. Normally I don’t talk. But extraordinary circumstances demand extraordinary things. First of all, you’re whoppin’ me, and I didn’t do nothin’ to deserve that, so stop, okay? I mean, we’ve been together for ten years. Haven’t I always gotten you from point A to point B without a hitch?”

Billy broke into a sweat. “Yeah. Yeah, you have.”

“I’ve been good to you, right?”

“Right.”

“So why you whoppin’ me? I tell you, guy, you’re losing it.”

And that was a true statement. Because here Billy was, having a conversation with a car.

Sal said, “You ain’t gonna make it to the park today. Let’s just get out of here.”

Billy’s eyes continued to flit in their sockets. “Why’s that?”

“Why’s that?” Sal sounded frustrated. “Open your eyes, Billy. We can’t get nowhere with that tree impedin’ the roadway. I can talk, sure, but I can’t pole-vault. I’m a friggin’ car, for God sakes! Just turn me around and let’s go home.”

Billy looked at the road.

And there it was. The toppled tree had to have been at least sixty feet tall, the five-feet-diameter trunk lying across the asphalt, completely blocking both lanes of the bypass roadway.

“Motherfu- Why didn’t I see it before?”

“You know, Billy, you’re a good guy, but sometimes you don’t trust yourself. When you said you didn’t want to clean a Fed because Feds are protected, maybe you shoulda stuck to your guns. Maybe this is the Big Guy’s way of telling you to follow your instincts.”

Shaking his head, Billy continued to stare at the tree. “I can’t understand why I didn’t see it before.”

“Billy, did you hear what I told you?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Yeah, yeah, yourself. Go back and tell Mr. Barton that it ain’t gonna work with the Fed.”

“I can’t do that. He already paid me fifty percent down.”

“So give him back the money. Givin’ up the money is better than sitting in Sing Sing.”

Just then the absurdity of the situation dawned on him. He was carrying on a conversation with his car. No, not just a conversation. A debate! An argument! And as far as Billy was concerned, the car was winning.

“Look,” Sal said. “There’s no sense discussing this here. People are gonna start coming, traffic’s gonna be murder. You ain’t gonna do anything today with this mama log blocking the street. So go home and do me this one favor, okay? Tell Mr. Barton no. I mean, I’ve been with you ten years-perfect service-so you owe it to me to just think about what I said, okay?”

“Okay,” Billy answered. “Okay, let’s go home.”

He put the key in the ignition, turned it to the right, and the engine fired up as sound and strong as ever. Billy blew out air, did a U-turn, and headed home.

Sal was making perfect sense.

More sense than any other broad he’d ever talked to.

It took Billy three days to fully realize the absurdity of the situation. He was listening-no, not just listening-scratching a lucrative job on the advice of a talking car! But knowing he was sane, that he wasn’t prone to auditory hallucinations even when piss-drunk, he eventually accepted the ludicrous predicament as real.

Still, he spent time reevaluating his options, which were really only two-to do it or not to do it. Not to do it involved talking to Mr. Barton and telling him why he didn’t want to do it. When Billy thought about that, it really wasn’t an option at all. Though he knew he wasn’t crazy, Billy couldn’t figure out how to explain a loquacious vehicle to Mr. Barton.