'He's got that wild look, ' Rina said in a low voice. 'He is hot.' He was standing next to the BMW, arms crossed, looking down at the car. He was in a short-sleeved shirt with a kind of tribal print, and old khaki pants with worn cuffs. His hair was brown, a mass of curls thick enough that they were almost like dreadlocks, and he had a dark, kind of olive complexion. He wore a leather cord necklace around his neck and penny loafers with no socks on his feet. He didn't look like Bill Skerrit or the rest of the guys I knew. He didn't look like anybody. I realized I was staring but somehow I couldn't stop . . .
