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antics had drawn quite a crowd, and they’d all witnessed his screwup.
Nowhere to run
, he thought. He found first gear without effort this time and eased the Accord forward to assess the extent of the damage.
    Everyone had an opinion and no one had a problem telling him where he’d gone wrong and how much it was going to cost him. He crouched in front of the Porsche and picked at the broken headlight and buckled bumper. There was a couple hundred dollars of damage to the average car, but on the German exotic, he was looking at thousands. His car, the piece of shit that it was, didn’t exhibit any signs of damage—just like Todd, who didn’t exhibit any signs of insurance.
    “Does anyone know who the owner is?” Todd asked.
    No one did.
    “You’ll have to wait,” someone suggested.
    “I can’t. I’m late for work.”
    “I don’t think you have much choice,” someone else said.
    “I can’t. I’ve been late twice this week already.” Todd delved inside his car for a scrap of paper and a pen. “I’ll leave a note.”
    He wrote:
People think I’m leaving you my contact and insurance details. I’m not. Sorry.
    Todd folded up his note, wrote “sorry” on the outside, and stuck it under the windshield wiper. He shrugged, hopped inside the Accord, and raced off.
    He felt guilty for shafting the Porsche driver, but at the same time, he was buzzing with the thrill of his lawlessness, and his speedometer showed it. He was accelerating past forty-five on Telegraph Avenue. He took a deep breath and eased off on the gas.
    In the scheme of things, what he’d done wasn’t so bad. It was an accident, after all, and it was more likely the Porsche driver’s insurance company could afford the repairs than he could.
Anyway, with a car like that
, he thought,
you’re asking for trouble
. Todd pulled into his employer’s parking lot safe in the knowledge that the matter was over.
    ***
    Todd liked to take Sunday mornings easy. He lounged in bed until ten, then took a walk to the newsstand to pick up the Sunday paper. He wandered back through the apartment complex, pulling out the color supplement and flicking through the magazine, ignoring the front-page splash about some big drug bust. He took a different route back to his apartment and strolled by his assigned parking space. He slowed as he approached his car. At first, he thought his windows had steamed up overnight, but the weather had been too warm for that. As he got close, he realized he’d been way off. Every one of the Accord’s windows had been smashed in. All four tires had been slashed. He ran a hand over the scarred paintwork. A crowbar was buried up to its hilt in the front windshield, and a note was sticking out from under a wiper. He pulled it out and read it.
Guess who?
it said.
    Todd didn’t need to guess. He knew who had done the damage. It was the Porsche owner. Todd hadn’t forgotten about the fender bender, but it had been days since it had happened, and he’d thought it was over, a stunt that would dissolve in his memory over time.
    He’d screwed it up this time. Someone must have taken down his license plate before he’d driven away. He was going to pay big for this one. He tugged out the crowbar and tossed it on the backseat through a glassless window.
    Returning to his apartment, a thought dogged him. Someone may have taken down his license plate and reported him to the police or the Porsche owner, but how did the Porsche owner know where he lived? He opened the door to his apartment.
    “Mr. Todd Collins, I presume,” the small man said, getting up from Todd’s couch.
    Two linebacker types, one black, the other Hispanic, flanked the small man. The small man seemed genial, but the linebackers looked ready to tear Todd’s head off. He could have bolted,but judging by the bulges under the three men’s jackets, he didn’t expect to get far. He guessed he’d just met the owner of the Porsche.
    “I’m Todd Collins.” Todd stepped