He had a green light at Mulholland. He shot beneath it so fast that his tires left the pavement when the road dropped away on the other side.
The road down from the crest was wide and, he knew, often heavily patrolled. He turned on his headlights and slowed down to t speed limit.
The fun was over. He still felt a little light-headed and shaky, and he held onto the good feelings for a while by thinking back to his wild trip to the top and his close one with the Mustang.
It had been bitchin', definitely bitchin'.
When he reached the intersection with Ventura Boulevard, he turned the radio off. He waited out the traffic signal, then made a left and drove to Earl's Body Shop.
He swung into the driveway, stopped in front of the closed double doors of the garage, and honked his horn.
Moments later, one of the doors rolled upward. Earl, the stub of a cigar jutting from a corner of his mouth, waved him in.
Phil pulled the Jaguar forward. Behind him, the door rumbled down. He shut off the engine and climbed out.
Earl squinted at the car through a gray screen of smoke. 'Looks like a beauty,' he said.
'She is a beauty,' Phil told him. 'Handles like a dream.'
Earl walked around the car, puffing and nodding. 'You were gonna have this to me last week.'
'Don't sweat it, Earl.'
'I ain't sweatin'. It's only just I told the guy he'd get it, know what I mean?'
'Well, now you've got it.'
'Takes time, the paint job, changin' the serial numbers, all that…'
'Takes time,' Phil retorted, 'finding a Jag in mint condition.'
'Thought you had one all lined up.'
'I did. I had the baby. Snatched it over in Beverly Hills, but it was raining like shit and some old fart walked right out in front of me and I creamed him. Creamed him real good, and I think some gal saw me nail him so I had to bail out. Who needs that kind of heat? Not me. Hey, this is a better car, anyway. That other one didn't have brakes for shit.'