Stick by Elmore Leonard

you, a car thief? I don’t believe it. Jesus, you want a car thief—you think there’s ever a car thief around when you need one? Honest to God, I don’t believe it—right before my eyes.” He paused a moment. “What were you going to do, swing with my car?”
    â€œHundred bucks,” Stick said, bending out the coat hanger without looking at it.
    Barry stared, his expression grave. “The Polack runs in this place, he says, ‘Gimme a coat hanger quick. My wife and kids’re locked in the car.’ “ He raised his arm to look at his Rolex, paused and said, “Go!”
    Stick wasn’t going to appear hurried. He walked over to the Rolls and had the coat hanger ready by the time he reached the car door, worked it in over the top of the window and lowered the hooked end to the door handle without fishing, got an angle on it and tugged, twice, three times. Pulled the coat hangerout and opened the door. He said to Barry, “Now pop the hood.”
    â€œThe bonnet,” Barry said. “With the Rolls Silver Shadow, man, you get a bonnet.”
    Stick got in under the hood, Barry watching him with interest, seeing how he clipped one end of the lamp cord to the battery and the other end to the ignition coil. Stick bent the coat hanger into a U-shape then touched the solenoid activator terminal with one end, the battery terminal with the other. The starter whirred, the engine came to life in a roar and idled down. Stick turned his head to Barry. “How long?”
    Barry looked at his watch. “You just made a hundred bucks. About . . .  four seconds to spare. Not bad.”
    Stick lowered the hood, the bonnet, and brushed his hands together. “One problem, though. You’re going to burn out the ignition you run it this way. You have to get a ballast resistor put on.”
    Barry said, “What do I have to worry about my ignition I got you, the phantom jumper. Get in the car, you can tell me all about yourself . . .  your record, how many convictions, anything you want. You drive.”
    Stick was still at the front end. “I wasn’t planning on going to Bal Harbour.”
    â€œWhat’re you talking about?” Barry said. He was by the door on the passenger side now. “The enginedies I’m fucked, right? You have to jump it again. Come on, you got me into this, you got to make sure I get home.”
    Stick said, “Bal Harbour? That where you live?”
    â€œYou’ll love it,” Barry said. “Get in the car.”

7
    AT FIRST STICK THOUGHT HE was talking about cars to whoever it was on the phone, saying, “No, long term I’m only looking at convertibles now,” like he was going to buy a fleet of them. “Short term, yeah, I’ll listen.” But then, Stick realized, he was talking about stocks and bonds and probably had a stockbroker on the other end of the line. The guy asking about “capital-gain potential” and “default risk.”
    Here they were cruising south on 95, traffic beginning to tighten up, following the same route he and Rainy had taken last week.
    The guy, Barry Stam, had the phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder as he wrote words and figures on a yellow legal pad, scrawled them on a slant with a gold pen. The guy sitting there in his cutoffs and sneakers, The Wall Street Journal and dark-brown alligator case on his hairy legs. It was a picture, something Stick had never seen before. Driving away from Wolfgang’s, the guy said, “BarryStam,” offering his hand. Stick took it, saying “Ernest Stickley.” And the guy said, “But they call you Stick, right? What else.”
    He was saying into the phone now, “Gimme it again. Parkview? . . .  Yeah, million and a half at, what was that, eight and a half? . . .  Eight point seven . . .  Yeah, I got it. Due when? . . .