"RADIATOR"

A bobcat lays in bed. Sunlight shines through the room's closed curtains. It must be about nine or ten in the morning. Slowly, the hands of sleep loosen their grip on him, and he opens his eyes. The brawny feline stretches and lets out a silent yawn as he takes in his senses. His head hurts. He should have learned not to mix those pills with alcohol after last time. After a minute or two of basking in the diluted sunbeams, Skinner stands out of bed and retrieves his clothing. Now wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, he exits the bedroom.

Jerome's house was never neat, but it's a little messier than the bobcat remembers. Still, it's not too much of a task to step over the occasional discarded clothing item or piece of trash. Skinner's lived in worse. The bobcat relieves himself in the bathroom and makes his way to the kitchen. He opens the fridge and retrieves a carton of milk. Before his lips touch the spout, however, his nose tinges with the smell of soured dairy. He returns it to the fridge and opts for a bottle of off-brand orange soda instead.

Skinner steps out the front door, wielding his soft drink. The edges of the yard are being intruded upon by overgrown trees and plants. Thankfully, the grass in Jerome's yard is dead year-round, needing no maintenance. Skinner rubs his aching head, which is just starting to clear up. To the bobcat's left, he spots a raccoon leaned under the hood of his faded, light-blue 1981 Chevy Sportvan. The van's paint reminiscent of the bobcat's jeans. Skinner recognizes the vehicle from last time he stayed with Jerome. The van isn't much, but it's Jerome's, and Jerome has grown attached to it. The raccoon waves him over. "Come look at this." The bobcat walks over.

He peers into the engine bay. The engine itself looks fine. Plenty of rust under the hood, but fine. Skinner's attention is then drawn to the radiator. It and the hose running from it have been mangled. "How the hell did you do that?" Skinner asks.

Jerome shrugs. "No idea. Maybe an animal got in there?"

"And tore through metal?" The bobcat replies.

"I dunno. We'll have to drive it down to Tony's to get it all replaced. We can talk about the dust and all that on the way." Jerome closes the hood. "Let's go." He walks to the driver's door.

"Right now? Alright." Skinner follows suit on the passenger side. He opens the door, crawls in, and shuts the door behind him. The half-drank soda is still in his hands. "Thanks for the pop by the way." He says jokingly.

"Heh." The raccoon puffs. He starts the van and rolls it into the narrow road. The whole residential area is built on an incline, as is common in California. Jerome lives in Del Mar, just north of San Diego. A beachside small town. It's nicer areas are towards the shore, where property values are higher and the occasional tourist flocks. Half of the town is separated from the beach by a rusty, old railroad track. Jerome lives in a hilly, poorer neighborhood with tightly packed properties and unkempt infrastructure. The van rides down the slanted pavement. A bit of white steam begins to appear from under the hood, which doesn't seem to bother Jerome. "Oh - Cass called earlier." Jerome says. "Said she locked your bike up in the back of the bar so it don't get stole."

"Ah." Skinner says. He probably should've given that more thought. He sits and thinks for a moment. "So, that dust." He begins. "We gotta find out the route that van's gonna take. We could probably get one of the company's employees to tell us."

"Cass is kinda already ahead of you on that." Jerome says. "She's told me over the phone that she's a lead on this guy who works over there. Sold out info to some guys who hit one of their money vans."

The bobcat takes a final swig of orange soda and tosses the empty bottle in the back. It impacts the van's floor with a clink. "How armed are the escorts?" He asks.

"That company's always been lax with their security, they've been getting away with it because their vans are unmarked." The raccoon clears his throat. "Cass says after they were robbed the money van escorts carry pistols. Even if the people moving the dust are armed too, none of them get paid enough to catch a bullet." He explains.

"Sounds easy." Skinner remarks.

"Sure does." Says Jerome.

By this point, the two have arrived at Tony's Garage, their destination. As the van turns and pulls into the lot, the empty bottle audibly rolls along its metal floor.