Car parts. As far as the eye can see. Mufflers, tires, steering wheels, mirrors, axles, brake pads, drums, broken windsheilds, wiper blades, engines, rusted, all rusted. Gaurded by a pit bull named Blue.

The fat man looked around the junk yard at all he owned. Everything he had saved over the years. Parts and more parts. Cars crushed over in the corner of the yard. Pickup trucks up on blocks in the other. Rows and rows of junk. He lit a cigarette and surveyed it.

A TV in the office was showing Andy Griffith. Aunt B was entered into a pie contest there in Mayberry. Black and white pictures of pies were on the small screen with rabbit ears reaching to the ceiling. He opened the refrigerator and got himself a beer. Sat in an easy chair and watched as the sky turned black. A rain fell, and he turned to watch Blue out of the corner of his eye barking at thunder. Old Blue eventually came into the office where a bowl Chuck Wagon was waiting for him. The dog ate fast. Gulped it all down. He made noises while he ate. The fat man made noises as well. The rain let up.

At the gates was an SUV. Scratches and dents all over it. A cracked windsheild. Rusted tail pipe. No fenders. The fat man looked it over. How much? he asked the black man who drove it in.

I was thinking a grand, the driver said. About a grand. Hell, you’ll double that in parts.

You got that title?

No title.

Five hundred, the fat man said. No title, no grand.

What do you mean?

I’m the one taking the risk, he said. Lit up another Marlboro. I don’t know where you got this thing. Looks like a West Side deal. Hell, there’s bullet holes in it.

You saying I stole this car?

I’m saying there’s a good chance.

Seven hundred.

You guys don’t know how to negotiate. Do you? If you would’ve said eight, I would’ve have said six. But, you said seven. Therefore I stay at five.

What kind of system is that?

Mine. All mine. Been doing this for thirty years. I know stolen goods when I see it. No title. Hmm. Who you trying to fool? This here is a shotgun special. Probably belonged to some drug dealer. Look, there’s a Puerto Rican flag all wadded up in the back. I imagine you took that off when you stole it.

You think I stole it ’cause I’m black.

No. We’re all equal opportunists in this game. Later on today, some Mexican will bring in shit. Then some naive white boy will come in and buy a junker to get around town in. Way it goes. He’ll be too stupid to ask for a title. Too dumb to look for anything on it. Some idiot from Canaryville. Some hillbilly. So no, I don’t think it’s ’cause you’re black. I might be the last one of my kind in this business.

How’s that?

I believe in fair trade.