Page 2 of Diesel

“Still alive, which pisses off my sister.” Dropping into the seat behind Walter, she grinned at me with teeth that were definitely her own. Greta was very proud of that fact. “So, you seeing anyone yet?”

Here we go. “Not currently, no.”

“My grandson is single.”

“Your grandson is seventeen.”

“Eighteen in November.”

“Still illegal, Miss Greta.”

“You’re only twenty-three. That’s not that big of a gap.”

“It’s a five-year gap, and more importantly, it’s a prison sentence.” I started the shuttle again, praying this conversation would die a natural death. It wouldn’t. It never did.

“He’s very mature for his age.”

“I’m sure he is. Still no.”

“You’re too picky.”

“I prefer the term ‘law-abiding.’”

Irene twisted in her seat to look back at Greta. “Leave the boy alone. He’ll find someone when he’s ready.”

“He’ll never find someone if he doesn’t put himself out there,” Greta argued. “What about that nice young man who works at the coffee shop? The one with the nose ring?”

“He’s married.”

“Since when?”

“Since always. He has a husband and two kids.”

“Well, that’s inconvenient.”

Understatement of the century. Greta’s matchmaking attempts had introduced me to more unavailable, uninterested, or frankly unsuitable men than I cared to count. Last month she’d tried to set me up with her pharmacist, who turned out to be both straight and deeply religious. The month before that, her neighbor’s nephew, who spent the entire coffee date explaining his cryptocurrency portfolio.

Artie’s house was the next stop. A tidy Cape Cod with white shutters and a mailbox that actually looked like a mailbox instead of a barnyard animal. Artie stood on the porch, checking his watch like I was late. I wasn’t. I was never late. Artie just liked to make a production out of waiting.

At seventy-seven, Artie was convinced he still had game. Evidence to the contrary included the fact that he’d been single for twenty years and his last date had been with a woman who’d left halfway through dinner. But Artie dressed like he was about to close a business deal in 1987. Today’s ensemble involved a burgundy blazer, pressed khakis, and loafers so shiny I could see my reflection.

“You’re late,” he said, climbing aboard.

“I’m three minutes early.” Artie’s watch was wrong, but obviously reality must conform to his Standard Time instead of my smart phone’s. Artie had accused me of tardiness approximately every Monday since the dawn of civilization.

“By my watch, you’re late.” He settled into the seat across from Greta, smoothing his blazer. Hair sprouted from his ears in tufts that looked like they were trying to escape his skull. Someone should’ve told him about nose hair trimmers, but that someone wasn’t going to be me. “Morning, ladies. Greta, you’re looking lovely today.”

“Liar,” Greta said cheerfully, accepting the fraudulent compliments as long as they were properly delivered. “But I appreciate the effort.”

“Irene, that’s a striking tracksuit.”

Striking. That radioactive lime tracksuit was striking. It struck the retina. It struck passing aircraft. NASA could locate Irene from orbit.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Arthur.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying.” Artie winked at me in the rearview mirror. “Right, Ollie?”

Artie was just cruising through the ladies, throwing compliments, winking at me like we were fellow players. “I’m staying out of this.”