Chapter 6

Tuesday, June 22, 11 a.m.

The car didn't look like much. It was a four-door Chevrolet, nine years old, faded-light-green with prominent rust-through along the bottoms of all the doors and over the back bumper. Phelps had satisfied himself, however, that the engine was sound, and exhaust emissions were minimal. The car looked typical of many he had observed during his time in the area: It was old and American-made; faintly ugly, but serviceable. It was worth, perhaps, $450.

"I'll give you $600 cash for it," he told the old Black man.

"That's fair," the man said soberly, trying to disguise his delight. The "For Sale -- $650" sign had adorned the car in his front yard for the past four weeks. He would readily have taken $350. "I'll need you to fill out the back of this title."

Phelps counted out $600 in fifty-dollar bills. "Why don't you just sign the title and give it to me," he said. "I'll send the notice in -- no need for you to have to mess with it."

The old man willingly signed and handed over the title document. "The tires are good," he said encouragingly. "'Spare's good, too. Ain't none of 'em new, but they all got miles left on 'em, and no slow leaks, neither. It's a good car."

"Yeah, it's fine," Phelps answered, absently. Trying to sound at home in this strange environment, he added: "'Pleasure doing business with you."

"Yes suh! 'Uses just reg'lar gas, too," the man said, still selling hard, despite the $600 already folded in his hand.

Phelps gingerly entered the car's ragged front seat. Inside, he smelled the stale reek of cigarettes. Waving, he started the car and drove it slowly out of the yard, over the curb, and onto the street.

His rental Buick, Phelps had decided, was too noticeable. He thought it looked like a rental car. He didn't know whether or not North Carolina had special plates for rental cars, but his Buick's license number had seemed uncharacteristic of other plates he'd noticed. He wanted to blend into his new environment.

The old Chevy had its own problems; Phelps knew he'd have to park it somewhere well-away from his upscale hotel. He had also decided to dress down to the level of the aging car -- to take on some local coloration. It was time to pick up a pair of wash pants and a polo shirt or two. It was time to make an effort to look as if he belonged in this rural community.

The process had already begun. Phelps hadn't seen a barber since leaving New York. He looked respectable, but he was gradually shedding the tailored, urban-rich appearance that, he knew, made him stand out far too much here.

The old car would blend nicely. He would immediately get it tuned up and cleaned -- perhaps he'd add cheap, but clean new upholstery on the front seat to give himself some relief from the decidedly sticky feel of the original equipment. The ashtray and the roof upholstery would receive a strong dose of deodorant spray. The car would do. It would help to make him invisible.

And the title? There would be no registration of the transferred title. After a few weeks of anonymous use, the car could be abandoned somewhere.