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I'm not a nice person. Rather a rat actually. My probation officer says I should write this down, to be contrite and remorseful before my next visit with the judge. For I've not been a nice person, and thus I must pay the piper. She thinks this is a good first step in the remaking of my life, in the turning of me into a good citizen. So here goes. This is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but...for confession is good for the soul, and my soul needs the help.

I was working the Thursday second shift out of the 405 tow yard. We caught the calls whenever somebody at LAX couldn't get their car started. This one was to be an old Rolls parked in economy, which was incongruous at best. An old Rolls Royce should have been parked in a private garage, with an empty stall on either side lest it be scratched by some heathen. But that's just me. What do I know? I drive a service truck for a living. I just show up and give ‘em a jump and hope for a tip, cause the pay ain't all that good.

The auto club took the call and forwarded it to us. Somebody's plane landed at ten PM. The guy got his luggage and dragged it aboard the shuttle bus headed toward the economy lot, exited at the little glass shelter on G row, and walked alone through the dark down the long row of cars until he drew next to that classic English boot with the T-shaped handle on the lid. I figured it would be silver. The best old ones were silver. And he loaded his luggage into the boot, and then clambered aboard, inserted the key, and nothing happened. Nothing. ...

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