In the Driver's Seat

Chapter 7

Ellington mansion, Manhattan, NY. December 22, 2003. Monday evening.

The lights in the music room were on when Neal returned from work. After a day spent in online training and case files, he looked forward to some human interaction.

Byron sat in his wheelchair beside the Christmas tree. He touched various ornaments, sometimes removing one to hold for a moment before returning it to the tree.

"Anything you want me to reach for you?" Neal offered.

"The car," Byron pointed to a classic car in silver, with Santa at the wheel.

It was high enough that Neal had to stretch. "Here you go." He handed it to Byron.

"This was from an old friend. He'd been the wheelman for a few jobs. Great driver, terrible liar. You knew if he got caught, he'd spill everything, so we made sure not to tell him the full plan."

"Like where you hid the goods?"

Byron chuckled. "That's right. He realized soon enough he wasn't cut out for that life. Loved cars, though. He went to work for a dealership, and the customers appreciated how honest he was. Owns the place now; I bought my Jaguar from him." He handed the ornament back to Neal, who returned it to its spot. "I wanted to apologize for the other night."

Neal stepped away from the tree. "What for?"

"Getting all upset like that, about the trumpet."

"You're used to being strong for your family." Neal sat on a chair near Byron. "You don't have to be."

"Because you're not family?"

"Well, there's that. You don't need to impress me. But from everything I've heard, your family inherited your strength. The thing is..." He paused to find better words, and then decided just to go for it. "Your family and me, we have more time than you do. You're the one who needs to process things now. If that means railing at fate or whatever, then go for it. Don't worry about upsetting us. We can come to terms with everything later."

"I didn't take you for a philosopher."

"I'm not. My best friend has a masters degree in psychology. I talked to him yesterday and he helped me understand your point of view."

"Wish I could have met him," Byron said.

"You will," Neal predicted. "I'll catch up with him after Christmas, and he's curious to hear about my new place and landlords. He'll be fascinated by my stories, and he won't be able to resist visiting to see things for himself. If he holds out until mid-January I'll be surprised."

"Tell me about him."

"Are you sure?" Part of the deal with June and Byron was that Neal would listen to Byron, giving the man the pleasure of sharing his experiences with someone who hadn't heard the stories before.

"There are times I get tired of being in my own head. It'll be a relief to think about someone else."

Neal thought back, considering what would make the best story. "Henry told me his first car was an Alfa Romeo. A convertible, I think. Cute car, tiny trunk. He drove it through his third year of college, and then met someone in the music industry who was willing to give him a start. Henry's a fantastic guitarist and a decent singer, and he started doing gigs."

"Only music?"

"Let's just say he had a lot in common with you in your bachelor days."

Byron smiled.

"The Alfa wasn't practical, so he traded it in. He brought his guitar case to a used car lot, and kept opening trunks until he found one that could hold the case with space left over. It was a sedan. Beige, you know, the color dealers call champagne." Neal paused. "He didn't want to be hassled by salespeople, so he did this at night. Hot-wired the car to take it for a test drive. Then he returned the next day to buy it."