He spoke slowly. “Are you here to take the car?” This didn’t help, because now Nina couldn’t tell if he did know about the whole Pokémon thing or not, although he clearly realized she needed careful handling.
She shook her head. “No, if that’s OK. Do you need me to get it out of here quickly? Is the bill for the garaging . . . ?”
Moltres interrupted her quickly. “The bill is paid through the year, actually. Bill was like that, always paid up front. ‘In case I’m hit by a bus,’ he used to say.” Then he looked annoyed, which might have been his way of showing embarrassment. “Do you want to see it?”
Nina followed him out and through some twisty and utterly filthy corridors until they came to a surprisingly large space out back, where there were several garages with locked doors. He opened the middle one, and there she was: Nina’s car.
Nina turned to Moltres. “Did you know that David Hasselhoff holds a Guinness World Record as the most watched man on TV?”
He gazed at her. “No,” he said.
“Yes,” she continued. “He was already successful from being on a soap opera, but Knight Rider was really the beginning for him.”
“Is that so?” said Moltres. “How completely uninteresting.”
Moltres walked around and opened the driver’s side door. “Want to take it out?”
Nina shook her head. “Uh . . . I can’t drive stick.”
He was disappointed in her already, and that didn’t help. Nina realized it was like admitting you can’t swim or ride a bike; not really disastrous, just one of those life skills one is supposed to have acquired by nearly thirty. Oh well, she thought, for the record I can both swim and ride a bike, so two out of three isn’t bad. She could also knit and crochet, so after the apocalypse, he’d be able to drive a manual transmission but she’d have a scarf, so who’d be laughing come winter?
Moltres sat in the driver’s seat and turned on the engine. It was loud, really very loud, and Nina could see how throaty purr had come into play. She guessed Moltres was willing to drive. She went around and got into the passenger side, and they slowly pulled out of the garage.
Moltres, unsurprisingly, turned out to be not exactly a Chatty Cathy. He did, however, have some questions.
“Your dad never taught you to drive stick?”
“I never met my dad.”
Moltres looked over at her, quickly. “Really? And yet he left you his favorite thing?”
“I thought his favorite thing was money.”
Moltres shook his head. “No.”
Nina shrugged. “Is it that rare not to know how to drive a stick? Aren’t the vast majority of cars in this country automatics?”
Moltres shrugged, weaving around a small fender bender in the middle of the intersection. Nina looked at it, as everyone does. She could tell an experienced LA driver by the speed with which she pulled out her license and proof of insurance, took photos of the mutual damage, if any, and got on her way. Soon, she thought, all you’ll have to do is wave your phones at each other, and a drone will appear to photograph everything before the lights have changed. You won’t even need to get out of your car, which, by that point, you probably won’t even be driving. Then she realized Moltres had asked her something.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question . . .”
He rolled his eyes. “I asked why you didn’t know your father.”
She looked at him. “Really? You jumped straight from criticizing my driving knowledge to asking me personal questions about my family?”
His mouth twitched. “You’re a fascinating mix of spacey and sassy. You totally aren’t paying attention and then you whip around and let out a zinger.”
“Well, you’re very nosy.”
He sighed. “Look, I knew your dad for over twenty years. He never mentioned you once. No offense.”
“None taken. I never mentioned him, either. Mind you, he knew I existed, and I didn’t have that advantage so, you know, reasonable excuse.” Nina looked at Moltres. “What did he talk about?”
“Cars,” Moltres said. “Always cars.” He swung the car around a corner, which it hugged like a long-lost friend. “He was good company.” He shot a glance at Nina. “Sorry.”
Nina looked at him, then out of the window. “What for?” she said. “It’s not like my life would have been better if I’d had more car-related conversation.”
Moltres said, “But maybe he would have taught you to drive stick.”
“Or maybe he would have deserted me like he did his other kids. I’m the only one he didn’t leave, because he was never there in the first place.” She looked for a button to lower the window. “Honestly, I think I may have dodged a bullet.”
Moltres shook his head as they headed up Laurel Canyon toward the winding roads at the top of the Hollywood Hills. “He was a good guy, Bill was. I’ll miss him.”
“Story of his life,” Nina said, leaning out and letting the wind toss her hair.
Moltres was silent for a while, then abruptly turned left and pulled into a wide-open parking lot that was essentially empty. He stopped the car and turned to Nina.
“I’m going to teach you to drive stick.”
Moltres began the lesson by introducing Nina to her newest little friend, the clutch pedal.
“Do you understand how a car engine works?”
“Yes and no,” replied Nina, who was nervously sitting in the driver’s seat. “You press the pedals and the wheels go around.”
Moltres sighed. “The power of the engine is transferred to the wheels through the transmission. In order to change gear without tearing apart the transmission, the clutch momentarily disengages it. “
“Fascinating,” said Nina. Nervousness was making her mean.
Moltres ignored her. “Turn on the car.”
She did so.
“There are three pedals underneath your feet: clutch on the left, brake in the middle, accelerator on the right. In order to move in a nonautomatic, you increase the power to the transmission while slowly releasing the clutch to engage the wheels. Get it?”
Nina nodded, not getting it at all.
“As you slowly release the clutch while at the same time pressing on the gas pedal, there comes a point where the car moves, slightly. It’s called the biting point, and we’re going to practice it now.”
Nina looked at him and raised her eyebrows.
“Increase the gas too quickly and you flood the engine and stall the car. Let’s go.”
She did as he told her, and flooded the engine.
They waited in silence for a moment. Then Moltres said, “So, what do you do for work?”
Nina had put her head down on the steering wheel. “I work in a bookstore.”
“Yeah?” said Moltres, interested. “I love reading. I’m a mystery buff.”
“You are?” Nina wasn’t sure why she sounded surprised. Mystery readers were everywhere, voracious, highly partisan, and passionate. They were among the store’s best customers, and unfailingly polite. In private they embraced a bloodthirsty desire for vengeance and the use of arcane poisons and sneaky sleuthing, but in public they were charming and generous. Romance readers tended to be fun and have strong opinions. Nonfiction readers asked a lot of questions and were easily amused. It was the serious novel folks and poetry fans you had to watch out for.