Page 14 of Until

The hour-long drive from the city to New Jersey flies by. I slow the car down as I enter a warehouse section on the outskirts of a small suburb in New Jersey. A group of small brown brick buildings is at the end of the road. One of the buildings has several limos surrounding it.

The building entrance brings me to a small reception area with three desks behind it. Lighting is dim and the stench of oil and dirt fills the air. Two women are at their desks, working. A local radio station plays through an overhead speaker.

All eyes turned to me as I walked in. An overweight man with grease under his fingernails enters through the side door. He pulls a bright yellow towel from his back pocket and wipes his hands. He looks at the two women with confusion.

"Hey, has anyone helped you yet?” he asks.

"No, but I just walked in."

"Oh, I'm sorry about that. I don't know what’s going on with these two," he says as he motions towards the two women. So what can I do for you?"

"Do you think we can speak privately?" I ask.

The man looks at the two women again with a smirk and nods. "Yeah, I got you. Come with me into the garage."

I follow him out the side door which opens directly into an oversized garage with three bay doors. He motions to the corner where his desk and a couple of chairs are set up next to a large workbench.

“Take a seat. The girls never come in here. It's too dirty for them. I’m Mel Schwartz. Owner of Schwartz Motors. And you are?"

"Thanks, Mel. I'm Ryan Stirling. I was wondering if I could ask you a favor."

"Yeah, sure, no problem. Just come sit down, please. I need to have my coffee. Want some?”

“No, thanks. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

As I follow him to the back of the garage we walk past several cars. I wonder if the car from last night is there.

I step away from Mel and walk past several black cars. Every one of them is the same make and model as the one she got into last night. The only difference is the license plate. As I reach the car closest to one of the garage doors I spot the plates I’m looking for. Car 042.

“Mel, this car. I saw it last night. Were you the driver?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I can’t give confidential customer information out. What’s this about? You’re not a cop, are you? You don’t look like one.”

I sighed, annoyed that it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t freely give me the information.

“I met a woman last night, but she left before I could get her name. She got into that car last night. Number forty-two.”

Mel strokes his beard before holding out his hand, palm up. “Well, like I said before, I can’t give out confidential customer information.”

I pull out my wallet to see what kind of cash I have on me. I rarely carry cash. I pull together one hundred dollars and hand it to him.

“This is all I have on me. What do you say?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’ll take it. But that’s a nice wallet you have there. Is that leather?”

I pull my credit cards and driver’s license out, slip them into a pocket, and hand him the wallet.

“I’ll check my records,” he says as he heads back to his desk. “But I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to give you what you want to hear.”

“Why is that?”

He thumbs through a pile of papers and then pulls one out. He hands it to me.

“This is why,” he says. “Whoever contracted that car didn’t want a driver. They said they had their own. They also did everything in cash because they didn’t want to leave a record.

“Do you remember what the person looked like who brought you the cash?”

“Yeah, but you won’t get anything from that either. Believe it or not, they used an Uber. The driver was really chatty. Said he never met anyone. He was told where to pick up a briefcase, and to bring it here.”

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