Page 6 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

“I think that might be the first time you’ve given me a compliment, Nora.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

The courier was smart to pick a place like this for the handoff. It’s a good cover. People linger. Stare. You can circle the same vehicle three times and call it admiration instead of surveillance. Half the people in this park are wearing sunglasses and baseball caps, and no one thinks twice about someone standing still for too long.

Figuring out who the recipient might be in a place like this is tough. It could be one of the car owners. Any of the chrome-admiring public. An event volunteer. A member of the band. Someone manning a food booth. Which is why it’s extra important to take cues from the courier himself.

The cars all form a big circle in the park, and the band that’s been playing in the middle of it is named The Lug Nuts. Which I now know, because what appears to be the tailgate of an old truck is propped up just in front of the band with their name spelled out in, you guessed it, lug nuts.

From what I can tell, the band consists of 6 well-seasoned gearhead grandpas, each playing an instrument made from car parts, and each one is out here living his best life. I get the sense that this might be the only show the band plays all year, yet they seem to be beloved by the crowd.

Especially as they play the opening notes to the next song. If you can call them notes. The instruments they’re playing are a banjo made from a hubcap, an oil-can guitar, a license plate washboard that one of them is using spark plugs to scrape, a row of wrenches hanging from a rack that’s being played like chimes, a wheel rim and fan belt bass, and percussion consisting of brake drums hung from a frame, an air-filter snare, and a triangle made from a dipstick.

The music has enough twang to feel like country and enough rhythm to feel like rock and roll. The subpar instruments don’t seem to be dampening the confidence of these gray-haired gods of junkyard rockabilly. The crowd starts gathering around the band, making it difficult to keep eyes on the courier.

I feign disinterest in the live music and move to a cherry-red 1955 Ford F-100, pretending to admire the polished wood bed while really scanning the crowd, and say, “Kella, do you still have eyes on the courier?”

“He’s just passing the lime green Dodge Charger.”

My eyes fly to the Charger, and I immediately spot the courier again, just as the chrome-aged musicians start singing a song that I’m guessing was composed especially for the occasion.

“She fell off a turnip truck, and landed in my arms. I had a busted-up bumper. Her, a whole lotta charm.”

From where Kella is appearing to admire a 1929 Ford Model A, I know she can see the courier’s face, so I ask, “Who is he trying not to look at?”

“The person dressed as the turnip mascot right in front of the kettle corn stand.” The round root vegetable with legs is currently posing for a selfie with the middle-aged wife of the guy standing with his chest puffed out in front of a plum-colored 1969 Chevrolet Camaro.

The courier has stopped near a 1948 Harley-Davidson Pinhead motorcycle, looking at it like he doesn’t really see it. He seems to be trying hard not to look to his right, so I scan everyone in that direction to try to determine who his contact might be.

There are three owners still by their cars between where the courier is standing and the kettle corn stand, but not any car show attendees. It seems the band has drawn everyone from this section to them. Interesting. We really thought it would most likely be a spectator.

I say, “Nora, navy and red 1965 Triumph Bonneville, plum 1969 Chevrolet Camaro, and silver-striped 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle.” I know she’s cross-checking the registrations to find the owners of the cars, and then searching for information we have on any of them. Meanwhile, the courier is still camped out at the motorcycle, but now he’s turned to watch the band.

I start meandering past the next couple of cars, drifting nearer to the courier.

The Lug Nuts have reached the chorus of their song. It must be one they sing every year, because at least half of the crowd joins in, singing right along with the band.

“Oh, turnip truck baby! Don’t you let your heart sour. I’ve got a full tank of gas and—” With even more gusto, they belt out the last line, holding out the last note: “A heart full of horsepower!” They’re all holding their lemonades, water bottles, or beers up in the air as they sing. The band plays their instruments even louder, which I hadn’t thought was possible, given what they’re made of.

Nora says in my earpiece, “I’ve checked on all three owners, and we don’t have much on any of them.” I can barely hear her, though, because the volume of the band—and the crowd— has surged.

Through my comms, Kella asks, “Do we know who is wearing the turnip suit?”

“Negative,” Nora says.

So, the mascot is a possibility. Plus, between the wide belly of Turnip Man and the shoots of green atop his head, there are plenty of places to stash an envelope. Something feels off about that, though.

All eyes are on the band, so the courier takes the moment to move. He goes to the plum-colored Camaro with the proud papa out front, just as the guy’s wife has headed back after getting her photo with the turnip. The courier doesn’t talk to the man—he just starts circling the car, checking it out. The man’s wife goes past their lawn chairs and to a cooler near the back of the vehicle, moves things around, then closes the lid again without taking anything out.

Instead of going to her lawn chair, the woman goes to the back of the vehicle just as the courier does. I’m close enough to see expressions on faces, and they aren’t the guarded, assessing expressions of two people who have never seen one another. It’s a look of trust that can’t pass between strangers.

The courier puts one hand in his pocket and pulls out the envelope just as the woman reaches forward to surreptitiously meet his. The envelope is passed off, and her motion is fluid as she transfers it to her own pocket. Then she continues walking past the man as if they hadn’t even noticed each other. Like her sole focus has been a smudge on the fender that she’s about to vanquish.

Across the row of cars, I catch sight of Kella. Her gaze isn’t on the envelope—it’s on the face of the woman who’d taken it. Progress.

My phone buzzes as I’m nearing the kettle corn stand, so I pull it out of its holster.

Reese: Like what?