“I parked it right here,” Jackie said, pointing to the curb where an ugly, bronze-colored Pontiac was now parked. “It was right here…” The mailman, his spindly white legs visible beneath his summer-uniform shorts, was half a block away, wheeling his three-legged canvas cart down the sidewalk, and even he could hear the keening note in Jackie’s voice. “Maybe you parked it around the other side, over on Fourth Street,” Truman said nervously. “Let’s look there.” “I know where I parked my own car,” Jackie said. “I would never park over there. Those pigeons from the park poop on everything over there. I parked my car right here, right in this spot. I swear it!” Truman strolled down to the end of the park, surveying the cars parked across the street. Jackie was right. A red Corvette would have stuck out in this neighborhood like a crow in a parakeet cage. “It’s not there,” he said when he arrived back at her side. “Guess it’s time to call the cops.” The police cruiser pulled up in front of the Fountain of Youth, its lights flashing and siren wailing.
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