All or Nothing Read Online Free PDF Page A

original image until not a scar remained unsmoothed, not a toggle switch out of place, not a spoke unchromed.
    The ’Vette had a souped–up engine that Giraud had rebuilt himself, spending hours in his oil–stained garage, fiddling with it, tuning it, polishing it, patting it––loving it. Its four–speed heavy–duty manual transmission was still the best; the tilt telescopic steering column was one of the first of its kind, and it––and the redesigned seats––allowed room for his six–foot–four–inch frame. Add the beautiful saddle–leather upholstery––all redone to the original specs––and the refurbished walnut trim, and this was one special automobile.
    Al’s childhood dream, fostered at the movies, had been to own a Corvette. Red, naturally. And hot. And now nothing––not Marla’s expensive silver Mercedes S500, not a new Porsche Carerra, not even, he bet himself, a Ferrari or Lamborghini, should he ever be in a position to afford one, which was debatable––would ever wean him from his first love.
    “Loyal to a fault, that’s me,” he’d told Marla, grinning when she had complained about the low bucket seats and the roar of the exhaust. “Once I’m in love, that’s it. I’m in love forever.”
    She had thrown him one of those wanna–bet looks, but there had been a trace of hope in her beautiful, long–lashed gray–green eyes. Maybe he really meant it. And not just about cars.

Al’s home was of an even earlier Hollywood vintage than the car: a 1930s Spanish stucco cottage with tall, arched windows, hardwood floors, beamed ceilings and fancy iron grillwork over the doors and windows, which, considering its proximity to the Sunset Strip, came in useful as an added safety feature in these more risky times. A terra–cotta–tiled courtyard fronted the house and also led into the separate garage at the left. A row of tall, needlelike cedars ranged down the right side––a bone of contention between Al and his neighbors, who wanted them topped, while Al wanted to keep them and maintain his privacy. And a pretty patio with an old Spanish–tiled fountain was out back.
    Al’s finger was already on the remote button as he swung into the side street off Queens and slid into the courtyard. The garage door opened smoothly. He sat for a moment in the cool darkness listening to the hum of the engine, almost as precious and real to him as the beat of his own heart. He patted the saddle–leather seat lovingly, brushing off a speck of dust from the console. He almost hated to get out of the car.
    It was pleasant he thought, to achieve at least one of your ambitions in life. That Monza Red Corvette had been so far out of reach for the poor New Orleans kid from the wrong side of the tracks, dreaming in the darkness of the movie house all those years ago. Now it was his and he enjoyed every moment of it.
    His cell phone rang and he picked it up. “Yeah?”
    “I’ll bet you fifty bucks you’re sitting in that darn Corvette congratulating yourself on how far you’ve come since you were just a poor kid dreaming at the movies.”
    He sighed. “Marla, what is it about you and my Corvette? You act like I’m with another woman.”
    “And that’s just the way you act with that car, like it’s a woman.”
    “Aw, come on, Marla, give a guy a break, can’t you   .   .   .   ?”
    “I know, I know, it’s your pride and joy. I know where I stand in your affections, Giraud. A very definite second.”
    Al’s deep laugh boomed down the line. “Don’t they say everybody seeks their own level in life?”
    “And I’ve found mine, you mean?”
    Marla’s sigh was gusty and he imagined her, the phone propped between her shoulder and her ear, lying on a chaise in a negligee, painting her nails Corvette red––though in fact it was just as likely to be mulberry or sky–blue–sparkle, depending on her mood of the day.
    “Actually, I’m at work,” Marla said briskly, smoothing a wrinkle