It's when the foam wash gets rinsed off by the high-speed jets that Woody is happiest, when he feels most at one with the world.

The roar of the water pounding against the glass and the entire body of the car is music to his ears. The sight of it streaming down in waves right in front of his face can lift him out of a bad mood faster than anything. It's like magic when very last speck of dirt is washed away by torrents of sloshing water for exactly twenty-two seconds.

Then the huge blue rollers come down and flip flip flip like crazy all over the car, tickling it from front to back. Then they reverse and tickle their way forward again before twirling off to the side. Then comes the second gorgeous wash cycle, another rainstorm, another biblical deluge to rinse away every sin known to man. Then the wheel buffs, the side buffs and the polish job. Once the air dryers are done and the Lincoln rolls off the rails on the other side of the wet cell, Woody feels like a new man.

He is a new man.

Woody isn't his real name, by the way. It's been so long since he went by his real name, he doesn't even turn his head anymore when he hears it spoken. He might not even remember what it is, now that you mention it. That's how long it's been.

He's Woody now, that's all anybody needs to know. And that's his name up there on the huge cherry red and white sign that can be seen from a good distance down the highway, in both the northbound and southbound lanes.

Woody's Clean Cars Carwash.

Get off at the exit where Woody's is, people say when they're giving directions to friends coming over for a barbecue or a kid's birthday party, you can't miss it. Woody's is a landmark. People would get lost without it. That thought makes him happy, too, but not as much as the intense wash cycles when water pounds against a car's exterior like one mean mother of a rain storm, but he feels blessed.

Woody's more religious than you might think, but he keeps it under wraps. There are no weeping Madonnas in his office or wooden crosses dangling from the rearview of his Datsun. He's a normal schmo, not a Jesus freak. Just a guy in a Hawaiian shirt who happens to own a full-service carwash. Which is maybe not the fanciest thing to have your name on, but it's fine for Woody and it has been for the last eight years.

See, he needed a change of scenery, his old job was starting to stress him out too much.

Back then, he went by the name of Lou. Before that, it was Anthony. Before that. . .ah, who cares. It was stressing him out. He was sleeping badly, watching too many political talk shows and yelling back at the screen. The night work, the long lulls between jobs and on top of that nit-picky rich bastard clients with bizarre requests even he thought was going overboard, were finally starting to drive him to distraction.

It's different now. He's got somewhere to go every morning, people who smile when they see him and a long list of satisfied customers who recommend his carwash to their associates. He sleeps like a baby. Hardly ever turns on the TV. He deals with his own kind, or near enough.

His life couldn't be better.

Woody drives the Lincoln he's sitting in to the rear parking area, reversing it into a special concrete box slot that can't be seen too well.

The car belongs to one of his best customers, Mr. Foretti. A little guy with the olive skin tone and the kind of wavy dark hair that screams MADE IN ITALY, although he's sure the guy's from the Bronx.

He doesn't know Foretti's real name, but names change like the weather, so who cares? All he needs to know is that Foretti ordered the deluxe clean, which means Woody does the honors himself.

The deluxe isn't on the board of services hanging in the café-reception area. You have to be recommended to know about that one. Be one of Woody's special customers. And when Woody does the work himself, you can believe it's gonna cost. But that doesn't matter either. Woody's special customers don't have to ask the price.

Woody stretches and looks around.

It's a warm sunny day with a sky so fluffy blue, it looks painted on. The type of day that promises ice-cream and steaks on the grill. The type of day postcards are made of.

There's a short line of dirty cars waiting to get loaded into the wet cells. A few of the customers whose cars are being seen to by the staff outside are waiting in the café with a nice cup of fair-trade joe, their gazes glued to their phones.

They wouldn't look up if a bomb went off right under their feet, and that's another thing that's perfect about his carwash. People trust it so much, the normalcy of it all, the complimentary coffee, the nostalgic oldies radio, that they pay absolutely no fucking attention to anything else, not even a little bit. God bless 'em.

Woody's patted himself on the back for years for that stroke of genius. It even fools the odd police officer who turns up on his off-time for a basic wash, and that little IRS runt who showed up five years ago in his department store suit, flashing his badge and asking to see Woody's books.

Foretti's not one of the phone zombies, of course he isn't. Woody's sure he has a phone, but he's never seen him pull it out, just like he's never seen him wait. He'll be back tomorrow for his Lincoln, or maybe even the day after. It all depends.

The carwash is a little isolated seeing as how it sits right there by the highway exit, but Woody has never had a break-in. For reasons we won't go into. It's enough to know that cars parked in Woody's pick-up area are as safe as if they were parked at the Vatican itself. Maybe even more so. You hear such shocking things about Rome these days.

Woody turns around and gets to work.

The trunk is always the dirtiest, and this is no exception. And the smell, Jesus. He's going to need thicker gloves.

Jamal, a local high school kid, is cashing up a normal customer at reception. Woody likes Jamal. The kid shows up on time, does what he's paid to do and doesn't ask too many questions. Woody almost always puts him on the register, because unlike some of the other kids Woody hires, he can make change and he's on the school football team. The kid is a mountain of muscle, and a show of muscle is always an advantage.

Woody grabs the heavy-duty gloves, industrial cleaner, the hand-held vacuum and the ultraviolet wand from the storage cabinets and zips back out the door again. But not before casting a longing glance at the photo of one of those Cuban old-timer cars he's pinned to his wall. One day, he'll make it down there, but he wants to do it in style. A month at least. In the rainy season. He's never been in tropical downpour, and that's one experience he's promised to himself before he dies.

Cleaning out a car trunk is an art form. Not many people know that. It's got to be taken in careful steps so as not to miss anything. After a half an hour of vacuuming, shampooing and spraying, Woody puts on the special goggles, lowers the hatch down and runs the ultraviolet wand over the entire interior of the trunk.

Clean as a mermaid's tukas.

And the smell of vomit's gone, too, so he doesn't have to do any extra work on that detail. Just for good measure, though, he sprinkles some plant fertiliser and spritzes a little bit of insecticide into the corners to throw off any dogs. Extra service.

The car interior is a much easier job; there's very little evidence to be vacuumed up. Unless you count a plastic sliver from the top of a condom package he finds under the passenger seat, and fifty-three cents deep in the folds of the driver's seat as evidence.

Woody stands back and scrutinizes the Lincoln to see if he missed anything. Nope. It's as pristine as the day it rolled off the assembly line. He shuts the trunk and drives it to the pick-up area, where he parks it next to shiny black Mercedes and a shiny black Cadillac. Also deluxe cleans.

Before getting out, Woody reflexively reaches into his pocket for a cloth to wipe down the steering wheel and door handle, only to stop himself at the last moment. He doesn't have to do that anymore, but old habits die hard.

It seems half of New Jersey decided to get their cars washed today. The line is all the way to the street exit and the café is full of happy phone zombies. Woody beams from ear-to-ear. He sends Jamal out to do some sponge and bucket work in order to speed the line along faster, and mans reception himself.

That's where he is when the phone rings at about five pm.

"Is Woody there?" a distracted male voice on the other end says.

"Speaking."

"This is John Jones. Black '57 Chevy."

Woody knows immediately who he's talking to. Athletic guy, blond, wears polo shirts. Looks as normal as the neighbor on a TV sitcom. And the only one of his special customers who uses a classic car for business. The trunk room in a '57 Chevy is un-fucking-believable. Woody knows, he's cleaned it more than once.

"I remember. How are you today, Mr. Jones?"

"Not so good, to tell you the truth. You see, Woody, I have this friend, and, how can I put this . . . He's pretty sick. The flu. Real bad. Can't get up. And his car, a pig sty like I've never seen."

"Just a sec."

A lady comes up to the counter and orders the four-star wash. Woody pins the phone between his cheek and shoulder, cashes the lady up and hands her her ticket. She smiles at him and he smiles back.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says into the phone, picking up where he left off and adding just a dollop of regret into his voice. He's not sure where this conversation is leading.

"Me too, me too. I'd like to cheer him up, Woody. And I'd like you to help me. So, what I'm asking is, do you make house calls?"

Woody blinks a few times. Does he?

For a moment, his imagination places him in a tropical downpour. He hears bird calls in the undergrowth, feels the pressure of the hard, warm rain streaming down, soaking his shirt, his shoes. He feels his eyes roll back in his head and the fabric of reality sing like a choir of angels. Heaven on earth.

The image dissipates, and Woody is back on the phone.

"I'm not sure. I've never been asked that question before, Mr Jones," he says.

"There's a first time for everything."

"A pig sty, you say?"

"A real oinker."

"Hm. I'll need a water source."

"No problem."

"Deluxe clean?"

"Absolutely."

Now Woody's sure of what he's being asked. He'd like to shake his head and roll his eyes — can't these guys be more careful? — but there's a customer wanting a basic wash standing in front of him, and he can't.

"For a deluxe clean on site, I might need an assistant. Is your friend well enough for an extra visitor?"

"Under no circumstances."

"I see. Well, since there's a first time for everything," Woody hands the customer the ticket and smiles, "you'll allow me to make two stipulations. One, your friend needs to have cash in hand-"

"I'm picking up the tab."

"Fabulous. Cash in hand, and two, if I don't like the looks of this oinker, I walk and no hard feelings."

There is a pause on the line. "I would very much regret that. But okay."

"The address?"

"I'll pick you up. You close at eight, right?"

"I'll follow you in my car. And yeah, we close at eight."

There's an amused laugh on the other end that doesn't sound so amused. It sounds nervous.

"Man, Woody. That's the last thing on my mind. You're a fucking landmark, you know that? And I don't need more headaches."

Jones shows up in a nondescript Japanese two door shortly after eight pm. Woody hands the keys to Jamal and tells him not to forget to turn on the security cameras. Jamal's a good kid, but he's a kid. Woody'll come by when he's done and make sure the cameras are on.

It's a longer trip, but the destination isn't surprising. A little after nine, the sky streaked with pinks and oranges, they turn onto a quiet street only a block or two away from the Jersey shore.

The car in question, another black Lincoln, is parked under a car port that can't be seen from the street. And there's a good reason why.

"Jesus H. Christ," Woody says when he sees it.

"Wait till you see the interiors," Jones answers, and goes to turn on the outside lighting.

Woody pops the trunk and reels back a few steps. The smell is horrific, and what's worse, flies have already gotten in. The backseat looks fine to the naked eye, but the driver's seat is a mess. Woody shakes his head.

"My advice: torch it. Yank off the tires and torch it."

"Too risky. The mark got away."

Jones looks at Woody with his eyebrows raised as if to say, and you know what that means. And Woody does know what that means. He never did removal himself, but he's familiar enough with what can go wrong. And a mark on the loose is about the worse it can get.

"Scrap yard?" he asks.

"I don't play in that high of a league." Jones nods towards the car. "Can you handle it?"

Woody takes another look in the trunk, then gets the ultraviolet wand out his car and goes over the rest of the interior. Jones stands back and watches, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, badly suppressed nerves making the side of his mouth twitch.

Woody notices that. Whoever let their mark get away is close to Jones. Too close. Brother? Girlfriend? It's someone he's responsible for, but it doesn't matter. Whatever trouble they got themselves into is none of Woody's business. He's there to scrub it all away and go home.

It's not as bad as it looks. At least he doesn't think so. There are stains on the backseat, but they don't look like anything incriminating. The driver's seat, though, Jesus, just look at that. All over the door, and the steering wheel, too. Some on the windshield.

"Looks like somebody shot your friend."

"Twice."

Woody twists around and looks at Jones. "Twice! No wonder."

"Can you handle it?"

Woody sucks in a breath. Time to talk turkey. "Yeah, I can. But this, this is going to take a while. All night, if I do it alone. Maybe even into the morning. That's gonna cost."

Jones shrugs. "Name it."

Woody's been thinking about this part since the phone call. He's been weighing his options, offsetting flight prices against special offers he's read about, offers that include drinks and nights out in Havana. He knows how much he wants, but he still makes a production out of it, scratching his chin and backing up to look at the trunk again.

Then he names his price. Jones nods. "Fair enough," he says, and pulls out a wallet as fat as a fist, handing over about eighty percent of the agreed amount. The rest will come when the banks open in the morning.

"They're picky about large withdrawals." Jones shrugs again.

Woody pockets the wad of cash, and gets to work. Jones unrolls a garden hose while Woody takes off his watch and puts on the apron, gloves and and goggles. The rest of his equipment he neatly arranges along the side of the carport.

It occurs to Woody that this is the first time he's worked at night since he got out of the business, and how he vowed he'd never do that bullshit again. He hates night shifts. They only bring problems. But look, here he is, pulling up blood-stiff, fly-infested carpeting out of the back of a shot-up Lincoln as darkness rolls in from the Atlantic and blots out the world around him.

He shakes his head and thinks about the money burning a hole in his back pocket and how much tropical rain it's going to buy him and how everybody has a price. Even him. Even squeaky clean Woody of Woody's Clean Cars carwash.

Jones mumbles he's going to bed and disappears into the house, but Woody's too busy with the hose and cleaner to notice much. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, has this idiot never heard of tarp? Garbage bags? What the hell must have gone wrong with the job?

It's well after midnight when an irregular tapping noise over his head breaks into Woody's thoughts, and he looks up. Rain. It's starting to sprinkle.

The house is dark and silent. Jones is either asleep or has left.

Woody could use some coffee, but decides to hold off poking around in the kitchen until he's got the worse of the mess out of the way.

He takes off one of the gloves and picks up the ultraviolet. Blood flecks are still visible on the top of the trunk, but he's got the back and sides scrubbed. Residue from other things are also visible, but they're so faint, he's fairly sure a lab won't be able to identify them. He puts the glove back on and keeps working.

The tapping becomes rhythmic and grows into a steady drumming that's accompanied by a rushing noise from beyond the carport. Woody stops and looks out into the night, at the white falling slashes, and then down at himself.

He puts down the scrubber and steps out into the rain, standing there for a few long seconds. The rain is cold, despite the warmth of the day, but that's not important. What's important is the cleaning. The getting clean. The washing off of the sins of the world.

When the water soaks through the back of his shirt, he steps in under the roof again and tackles the driver's side door.

He's so wrapped up in his work that he doesn't notice the man dressed all in black standing in the open kitchen door watching him. Or at least not until he stands up to grab the ultraviolet wand for a quick check — and then has to suppress the immediate urge to hurl the wet sponge in his hand at the figure.

"You're doing house calls now, Woody?" Mr. Foretti says over the now light drumming of the rain on the carport roof, a look of mild surprise on his face.

"No. No, I'm not. This is an. . uh. . .emergency. Or so I was told."

"Looks it," Foretti takes in the bullet holes and the smashed windshield, the pink water with foam bubbles swimming on the surface pooled under the car.

It's only then that Woody's gaze drops to Foretti's hand. And the black matt Smith & Wesson in it.

Ah, shit, he mumbles. Night work. He should have known.

For the first time in eight years, Woody's heart dances the rumba in his chest.

Foretti frowns, and follows Woody's gaze. "Oh, sorry," he says and slips the gun into a holster hidden under his jacket. Woody relaxes, but only just a bit. Night work. He fucking should have known better.

"That your car out front? The Datsun?" Foretti asks, taking a few steps closer. He's looking the Lincoln over more closely now, almost like he's piecing something together in his mind. Like he doesn't know exactly what happened either, but his professional curiosity is peaked.

Woody nods.

"Then I think it'd be a real good idea if you packed up and went home. And forgot you were ever here."

Woody nods again. He turns to do what he's told, but at the last moment, Cuba slips into his mind and he says, "Jones still owes me."

Foretti smiles — a genuine smile — and spreads his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. "He's gonna have to renege."

Woody strips off his gear, packs his equipment into his car and leaves the Lincoln like it is. Trunk and driver's side door gapping open, quickly darkening blood still decorating half the front seat. Foretti wishes him a pleasant drive home, and watches from the doorway as he climbs in his car and pulls away from the curb.

In Woody's mind, details are snapping into place and lighting up. Jones' too risky makes a whole lot more sense now. Somebody was clearly getting too big for their britches and just got taken down a whole lot of pegs.

All the way to the bottom.

He'll never see that '57 Chevy in the carwash ever again, that's for sure. He wonders vaguely what will happen to it.

The rain is coming down harder. After twenty minutes, Woody pulls over onto the shoulder of the road and turns off the engine. He watches the rain pour over the windshield, buckets and buckets and buckets of the stuff, just like during the twenty-two second high-pressure wash cycles.

Once it lets up, he starts the engine again. As he comes to the carwash, he turns in and makes sure the security cameras are on. Then he drives home, his beloved sign glowing in the rearview mirror the whole way.

Get off at Woody's, you can't miss it, he thinks, and vows never to do house calls or night work ever again as long as he lives, goddamn it. He's got enough in his pocket to get him to Cuba. He doesn't have to risk his ass anymore.

Foretti's words keep echoing back to him. So much so, that for years to come Woody incorporates them into his nightly prayers that only he and Jesus hear.

"Don't worry. We all know how trustworthy you are, Woody. After all, you're a goddamned institution. And why would any of us ever want that to change? "