I heard the heavy screech of a metal drawer opening, then the rustle of stiff paper.

He came back a minute later holding a thick wooden clipboard full of yellow carbon logs.

“Buick sedan, plate number six seven two,” he said, reading the line with his thumbnail pressed against the paper.

“Checked in at one forty-eight PM, keys hung on hook fourteen, checked out at three ten PM.”

“I need an official copy of that line with a manager’s stamp,” I said.

He looked at my heavy coat, then at the clock on the wall.