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The ones too broke or wise to get parts from a dealer come here where the mud is red and eternal. Eight front ends are stacked on girders he salvaged too. Ask for Bruce, he said on the phone, and doesn’t crack a smile when you show up. Twenty-four fifty if we find one, sister. Bruce, it says on his coveralls, and Bruce on the ones his helper wears. The routine’s so good they’re keeping it. The taillight you can have. Except for the traffic, the wrong parts of Baltimore aren’t so bad: each house pulling its straightest face, the curbs and stoops lined up like a man inverting his pockets to show he’s got nothing to hide. Construction sites gone aimless and the detours feeling more like home. You know where to find a cheap lunch. Up front, a woman hears the list through twice before, as to a sweet and original prompting, she picks fried trout. Likewise the oyster shucker, pretending you’ve asked for a straw with your beer. He searches the counter above which reigns a picture of Washington Stokes, retired, who cleaned fish to order for fifty-nine years. A girl on a schedule deserves what she gets, and sometimes gets it kindly, earned or no. Untouched by heat of sun or city police, the fair-haired accommodate best by having everything to learn. But here comes your beer without a straw, as though good nature were common as thirst. Here’s Washington Stokes, who would understand the strategy that lets the fool go free.