Diesel (Howlers MC #3)

Chapter One

Ollie

Pulling up in front of Irene’s house was like arriving at a postcard someone had left out in the sun too long.

Pale yellow siding, which might’ve been cheerful thirty years ago, now faded to the color of old teeth.

Flower boxes under the windows overflowed with petunias in shades of purple that clashed violently with the trim.

A ceramic gnome guarded the front steps, chipped and leering like he knew something I didn’t want to find out.

I honked twice. Company policy, though Irene claimed she could hear the shuttle’s engine from inside her living room and the honking was “unnecessary theatrics.” Her words, not mine.

The front door swung open, and Irene emerged in a velour tracksuit the color of radioactive lime.

She was seventy-six, barely five feet tall, and had the kind of hairdo that required industrial-strength aerosol and possibly a permit from the fire marshal.

Today it was teased into a silver helmet that added three inches to her height.

“Morning, Oliver,” she called, navigating the steps with her cane. Rhinestones sparkled on the handle. Everything Irene owned sparkled. Including, I suspected, her denture adhesive.

“It’s Ollie, Miss Irene.” I climbed out to help her with the door. “And good morning to you too.”

“Oliver is a proper name. Ollie sounds like something you’d name a terrier.” She settled into the front passenger seat with a grunt, arranging her purse on her lap. The purse was also lime green. Matching sets were apparently very important at seventy-six. “Where are we going today?”

“Budget Foods. Same as every Monday.”

“Wonderful. I need wine.”

“You can’t have wine. Doctor’s orders. Conflicts with your blood pressure medication.”

“My blood pressure would be fine if people stopped telling me what I can’t do.” She clicked her seatbelt into place with the confidence of someone who’d been arguing with authority figures since the Eisenhower administration. “Besides, one little bottle won’t hurt.”

“One little bottle will send your blood pressure into orbit, and then I’ll have to explain to your daughter why you’re in the ER again.”

“Tattletale.”

“Employee of the month.”

She snorted, which I took as acceptance. For now. Irene had a habit of sneaking contraband into her cart when she thought no one was looking. Last week it had been a family-size bag of Doritos. The week before, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. The wine would be today’s battle, and I was already tired.

Walter’s house was next. A ranch-style number with brown siding and a lawn mowed to within an inch of its life. Precision and order, those were Walter’s gods. Too bad his dentures didn’t worship at the same altar.

I honked once. Walter appeared in the doorway almost immediately, arms loaded with plastic bags. So many plastic bags. An avalanche of them, crinkled and stuffed with more plastic bags, because apparently Walter had never met a grocery sack he didn’t want to reuse until it disintegrated.

“Morning, Ollie!” Walter called, shuffling toward the shuttle. He was eighty-two, built like a string bean, and wearing a cardigan despite the fact that it was seventy degrees outside. “Got my bags.”

“I can see that, Walter. Planning to bag groceries for the whole store?”

“Reusable bags are five cents now. Highway robbery.” He climbed aboard, depositing his mountain of plastic onto the seat behind Irene. “Five cents! In my day, bags were free.”

“In your day, bread cost a nickel.”

“Damn right it did. And it tasted better too.” Settling into his seat, Walter immediately started working his jaw in that distinctive way that meant his dentures were bothering him. “These things are pinching again. I swear they shrink overnight.”

“Dentures don’t shrink, Walter.”

“Then my gums are growing. Either way, it’s a conspiracy.” He worked his jaw again, making a clicking sound that echoed through the shuttle. “Dentist says they fit fine. What does he know? He’s got all his real teeth.”

“Tragic,” I said, pulling away from the curb.

Greta’s place was four blocks over. A brick bungalow with concrete steps and a mailbox shaped like a rooster. Because, why not? Greta answered the door before I could honk, waving from the porch with enough enthusiasm to dislocate a shoulder.

She was seventy-nine, built like a fireplug, and had the kind of personality that came with a warning label. Zero filter. Absolutely none. If Greta thought it, Greta said it, and if you didn’t like it, that was a you problem.

“There’s my favorite driver!” she hollered, making her way down the steps. Today’s outfit involved purple stretch pants, a neon orange sweater, and orthopedic shoes that looked like they could survive a nuclear blast. “Looking handsome as ever, Ollie.”

“Morning, Miss Greta.” I held the door open while she hauled herself inside. “How are you today?”

“Still alive, which pisses off my sister.” Dropping into the seat behind Walter, she grinned at me with teeth that were definitely her own. Greta was very proud of that fact. “So, you seeing anyone yet?”

Here we go. “Not currently, no.”

“My grandson is single.”

“Your grandson is seventeen.”

“Eighteen in November.”

“Still illegal, Miss Greta.”

“You’re only twenty-three. That’s not that big of a gap.”

“It’s a five-year gap, and more importantly, it’s a prison sentence.” I started the shuttle again, praying this conversation would die a natural death. It wouldn’t. It never did.

“He’s very mature for his age.”

“I’m sure he is. Still no.”

“You’re too picky.”

“I prefer the term ‘law-abiding.’”

Irene twisted in her seat to look back at Greta. “Leave the boy alone. He’ll find someone when he’s ready.”

“He’ll never find someone if he doesn’t put himself out there,” Greta argued. “What about that nice young man who works at the coffee shop? The one with the nose ring?”

“He’s married.”

“Since when?”

“Since always. He has a husband and two kids.”

“Well, that’s inconvenient.”

Understatement of the century. Greta’s matchmaking attempts had introduced me to more unavailable, uninterested, or frankly unsuitable men than I cared to count.

Last month she’d tried to set me up with her pharmacist, who turned out to be both straight and deeply religious.

The month before that, her neighbor’s nephew, who spent the entire coffee date explaining his cryptocurrency portfolio.

Artie’s house was the next stop. A tidy Cape Cod with white shutters and a mailbox that actually looked like a mailbox instead of a barnyard animal. Artie stood on the porch, checking his watch like I was late. I wasn’t. I was never late. Artie just liked to make a production out of waiting.

At seventy-seven, Artie was convinced he still had game.

Evidence to the contrary included the fact that he’d been single for twenty years and his last date had been with a woman who’d left halfway through dinner.

But Artie dressed like he was about to close a business deal in 1987.

Today’s ensemble involved a burgundy blazer, pressed khakis, and loafers so shiny I could see my reflection.

“You’re late,” he said, climbing aboard.

“I’m three minutes early.” Artie’s watch was wrong, but obviously reality must conform to his Standard Time instead of my smart phone’s. Artie had accused me of tardiness approximately every Monday since the dawn of civilization.

“By my watch, you’re late.” He settled into the seat across from Greta, smoothing his blazer.

Hair sprouted from his ears in tufts that looked like they were trying to escape his skull.

Someone should’ve told him about nose hair trimmers, but that someone wasn’t going to be me.

“Morning, ladies. Greta, you’re looking lovely today.”

“Liar,” Greta said cheerfully, accepting the fraudulent compliments as long as they were properly delivered. “But I appreciate the effort.”

“Irene, that’s a striking tracksuit.”

Striking. That radioactive lime tracksuit was striking. It struck the retina. It struck passing aircraft. NASA could locate Irene from orbit.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Arthur.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying.” Artie winked at me in the rearview mirror. “Right, Ollie?”

Artie was just cruising through the ladies, throwing compliments, winking at me like we were fellow players. “I’m staying out of this.”

“Smart kid.”

Edith was already waiting at the curb when I pulled up to her place.

A rambler with aluminum siding, a front porch that sagged slightly to the left, and a yard full of garden gnomes, which made Irene’s single gnome look lonely.

Edith was seventy-four, thin as a rail, and clutching a canvas bag that bulged ominously.

Coupons. Had to be. Edith brought coupons the way other people brought oxygen. Essential. Non-negotiable. Probably organized by expiration date and product category.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said, climbing aboard carefully, which suggested her hip was bothering her again. She wouldn’t admit it, though. Edith didn’t believe in complaining. She believed in coupons and the inevitable downfall of society via technology.

“Morning, Edith,” I said. “How are you today?”

“Fine, thank you.” She settled into the last available seat and placed her bag on her lap with both hands, like someone might try to steal it. “I clipped some excellent coupons this week. Thirty-five cents off Greek yogurt.”

Thirty-five cents at a time, she would survive the collapse of civilization.

“Thrilling,” Walter muttered.

“You mock, but savings add up. Unlike you young people with your phones and your apps and your complete disregard for fiscal responsibility.”

“I’m eighty-two, Edith,” he reminded her.

“You know what I mean. Everyone under ninety is young people now.” She patted her bag, not realizing she was a part of her own classification, which no one pointed out. “Technology will be our downfall. Mark my words.”

“You said that about microwaves in 1985,” Greta said.

“And I was right. Have you seen what they do to food? It’s unnatural.”

“It heats it up.”