Terrel and Rohan shared the front seat heading back to the motel. It was a tight fit, and likely illegal, but it was hard to say no to Terrel.
AC asked Rohan, who sat closest to him, what he did when not performing. “You n-n-never said l-last night.”
“Believe it or not, I talk for a living.”
“As w-w-what?”
“I’m an auctioneer.”
Terrel piggybacked. “‘Give me fiddy, fiddy five? Do I hear sixty?’ and all that.”
“Yup. Car auctions in upstate New York,” Rohan said.
“C-cars? I l-l-love c-cars! Old, n-new, vintage, y-you n-name it.”
“We do mostly vintage. You’ll come up sometime. I’ll get you backstage, and you can watch me in action. I’m good with a script, even in front of a crowd, when all I have to remember is how to count by five. I do most of the acquisitioning, always on the lookout
