Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto by Eric Luper Page B

front wheel well. The moon roof is open, and the windows are down. A colorful CD hangs from the rearview mirror. The disc turns in the breeze and catches the sun with each rotation.
    â€œI still don’t understand why you want to test-drive apimped-out Integra.” Dimitri pats the dashboard. “The Red Scare here is running just fine.”
    â€œCamrys are granny cars,” I say. “I want something that makes a statement.”
    â€œWell, that thing certainly makes a statement,” Dimitri says. “Unfortunately, that statement happens to be ‘Hey, everyone, look at me. I’m a guido!’”
    â€œRacist much?”
    â€œMy mom’s grandfather was off-the-boat Sicilian. I’m one-eighth Italian. That makes it self-deprecating humor, not racism.” Dimitri fidgets in his seat. “So, what are you going to do with the Camry when you buy that Acura?”
    â€œWho’s saying I’m going to buy it?”
    â€œWell, if you buy it.”
    â€œI guess I’d sell the Camry. Actually, I would have to sell it.”
    â€œYou should cut me a wicked deal, Seth. Most of the fries between the seats are mine anyway. That gives me partial ownership. I’d just be buying out my equity.” Dimitri rolls down his window and rests his elbow in the sun.
    â€œShut that,” I say. “You’re going to let out all the air-conditioning.”
    â€œThere’s no air in here to start with. How do you condition something that’s not present? What time did you say you were going to meet this lady?”
    â€œOne o’clock.”
    â€œWe’re only fifteen minutes early,” he says. “Let’s knock on her door. The car’s here. She’s got to be home.”
    Last night I did a reverse lookup on her phone numberto find out her name. It’s Luz Rivera. What kind of name is Luz anyway? How do you pronounce it? Is it “Luhz” like lug nut? “Looz” like loose?
    The number 1103 is painted in faded yellow at the foot of the Acura’s parking space. I look for the apartment numbers on the brick buildings and locate hers. The curtains are closed on the windows of all four units, and there is no sign of movement inside.
    â€œCome on,” Dimitri says. “Let’s go.”
    â€œNah,” I say. “I’d rather wait until one. No surprises, you know?”
    â€œSuit yourself, but I’m heading down the hill for a swim. That pool we passed on the way in looked sweet.”
    â€œKnock yourself out,” I say. “Most of these condo complexes have pool memberships, though. You might get checked on your way in.”
    â€œWhat do you know about condo pool memberships?”
    â€œMy uncle up in Halfmoon lives in a place like this. He bitches about them raising the fees all the time. You have to show a badge and stuff.”
    â€œWe’ll see about that.” Dimitri flings open the door and heads down the hill, his flip-flops still thwap, thwap, thwap ping long after he makes the turn around a row of tall bushes. I press the button and close Dimitri’s window. I need something to settle me down, so I crank my tunes. As usual, “Dueling Banjos” comes on. It pumps through my speakers so loud, I’m afraid I’ll awaken President Chester A. Arthur’s corpse down at the Albany Rural Cemetery. I fumble with the dial to jump to the next song.
    Before I have a chance, my cell phone vibrates in my pocket. I yank it out. It’s Veronica. She’s called a few times today but hasn’t left a message. It’s funny that I was the one who wanted to keep in touch, and now she’s the one calling all the time. I snap the phone shut and toss it on the passenger seat. If it’s important, she can leave a message.
    A glint of light catches my eye. At first, I think it’s the CD spinning on the Integra’s rearview, but it’s coming from higher up. The door to