Hal was leaving for vacation.
The car was packed, the luggage was secured, and his wife was still inside the house finishing her last-minute packing. At last, they were getting out of Desert Blossom.
He started the engine and pulled away. For once, everything was quiet.
Then he passed the 1972 double-wide.
Hal glanced over—and stopped.
Kyle stood beside a folding table beneath a hand-painted sign:
BRAND NEW USED CATALYTIC CONVERTERS
$19.99
Catalytic converters covered the driveway. Three shopping carts overflowed with them, a kiddie pool labeled PREMIUM MODELS sat near the porch, and a cardboard display promised:
BUY TWO, GET ONE SLIGHTLY LESS STOLEN
A battery-powered fan blew another sign back and forth:
NOW ACCEPTING TRADE-INS, GIFT CARDS, AND SUSPICIOUSLY LARGE AMOUNTS OF CASH
Kyle wore a visor that said CATALYTIC CONVERTER KING and enthusiastically pitched one to a confused-looking man. A handwritten price list offered different rates for "regular," "sporty," and "the one that came off a police vehicle."
Beside the table, a cooler advertised FREE LEMONADE WITH EVERY PURCHASE. The lemonade was the exact color of antifreeze.
Hal stared through the windshield.
Kyle spotted him and raised a catalytic converter like a game-show prize.
Slowly, Hal reached for his phone and texted his wife:
Honey, I'm just gonna take Kyle in so we don't have to come back.
She looked at the message, then at Kyle, then at Hal. Finally, she noticed the enormous banner Kyle had hung between two telephone poles:
DESERT BLOSSOM'S MOST TRUSTED SOURCE FOR PARTS THAT DEFINITELY CAME FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE
Hal got out of the car.
"Kyle."
Kyle turned around.
"Officer Hal!"
He immediately shoved the catalytic converter behind his back.
Hal pointed at the driveway. "Why?"
Kyle smiled. "Business opportunity."
"Where did you get thirty catalytic converters?"
Kyle glanced at the piles, the carts, the kiddie pool, and the banner before looking back at Hal.
"Thirty?"
Hal closed his eyes.
Kyle leaned closer. "Officer Hal, if you're counting the ones in the van, it's more like forty-seven."
Hal opened his eyes. "You have a van?"
Kyle proudly pointed toward the double-wide.
A minivan sat in the yard with its doors open. Every seat had been removed, and the windows were covered with handwritten signs:
MOBILE CATALYTIC CONVERTER BOUTIQUE
WE COME TO YOU
NO QUESTIONS ASKED, ESPECIALLY NOT ABOUT THE VAN
Hal stared at it.
Kyle lowered his voice. "I'm expanding."
The confused customer was still holding a catalytic converter in one hand and a receipt in the other.
"Does that even belong to your car?" Hal asked.
The man shrugged. "Kyle said it was universal."
Kyle nodded. "Universal-ish."
Back in the driveway, a small child sold Kyle's homemade business cards for fifty cents each. One read:
KYLE'S CATALYTIC CONVERTERS IF IT'S UNDER YOUR CAR, WE CAN PROBABLY GET IT OUT
Hal slowly reached for his radio.
Then he stopped.
His gaze moved from the house to the car, from the car to Kyle, and from Kyle to the road leading out of Desert Blossom. Finally, he looked at the catalytic converter in Kyle's hand.
"Fuck my life."