Chapter 3 Friendly Rattlesnakes
Friendly Rattlesnakes
brADY ADJUSTED his cap and watched as the tow truck backed slowly from the two-lane freeway onto the hardpan lot of the auto repair shop that was the only such place that existed this far from Palm Springs or Las Vegas.
“Are you guys sure you want this?” he asked.
The SUV had been involved in a multicar pileup near Vegas, and while the man who’d driven it had gotten out alive, the car had been totaled.
Brady, who sometimes patrolled the desolation between Las Vegas and Baker, including Victoriana, had been told that the scrapyard was backed up, and this was the last vehicle to dispose of.
He’d seen various vehicles in construction as he’d passed this strip and the one toward Barstow, and he’d always been impressed by how quickly the project cars worked up.
And yes, he’d noticed the probably illegal street-racing vehicle that they tried to keep hidden on the shady side of the station.
The color of a yellowjacket, with black and silver trim, the Ford SHO was a flashy beauty—and Brady had heard whispers of street races in which other rides wouldn’t even show up if they knew the SHO was coming.
He figured he was up to his eyeballs in meth labs and human trafficking, and the last thing he needed to do was bother two guys minding their own, but boy, would he like an excuse to get next to that SHO.
He figured maybe offering a Trojan Horse might do it.
He hadn’t reckoned on slightly less than six-feet of sex-on-legs auto mechanic to be his entrée to that beautiful vehicle, and he was doing his best reverse psychology to get the man to take him up on the bait.
The auto mechanic eyeballed the smushed SUV with one eyebrow raised in a tanned face.
“Want it?” he asked. “Well, sure. We can fix about anything, and another vehicle ain’t no big thing.
” He pronounced it vee-hi-cul, which seemed to be some sort of weird aphrodisiac for Brady, and he’d had no idea.
“I just need to know how big a chunk of my soul I gotta sell for your busted-ass SUV, Mr. Officer, sir.”
And then those sleepy hazel eyes pinned Brady to the grill of his police issue Chevy Tahoe, and Brady started to sweat.
“No chunk of my soul,” Brady swore. “I mean your soul. I mean….” He gave his best smile and realized he came off as a needy car geek who hadn’t been laid in a really long time. “I just want to see the car, is all.”
The mechanic pulled the brim of his battered Padres baseball cap a little lower over those stunningly sharp eyes, throwing them into shadow again and giving Brady room to breathe.
“Why?” he asked sharply. “What car?”
Brady wanted to groan. “I swear, Mr., uhm—”
“Atchison. People call me Ace. Why you wanna see Sonny’s SHO?”
Ah! So Ace Sex-on-Legs knew what car. And didn’t like playing stupid.
Brady decided he didn’t want to play stupid either.
“Listen—I’m not trying to get you into trouble.
I know there’s street races here, but I’m not part of that patrol.
I’m on human trafficking and meth labs mostly, and the last guy who liked to harass street racers died violently a couple of days ago, so you’re safe.
” God rot Roy Kuntz’s soul, but he didn’t want to think about that right now.
“I just….” He felt so stupid. “I have loved cars all my life, Mr. Atchison. I stare at books with them, I go to trade shows, I go on test drives. That vee—erm, vehicle is a thing of beauty, and I really want to get a closer look.”
Ace grunted, furrows between his nose and eyebrows digging a little deeper. “What’d he die of?” he asked. “The feller who liked to harass street racers?”
Brady swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable.
Arlen Cuthbert hadn’t said a word to him since that day, less than a week ago, and neither had most of his coworkers.
Brady had apologized for letting the “feebs” take over Donnie Ray’s death scene, but he had not apologized for the scene near Roy’s smoking corpse.
He couldn’t understand their indifference.
One of their own had been killed, yes, but oh my God, didn’t they care what he’d been into!
Wasn’t anybody interested in a pedo ring right there in their own station house?
The question—and possible answers—left Brady sick and sad, and he didn’t want to talk about it.
“A car crash,” Brady said shortly, feeling a little nauseous. How much of that had spread, he wondered? How much of that terrible story did the general populace know, and when would the scandal break in the press?
Ace brought his attention back with a chuckle, and the sound had a rough and dirty sand-crackle sound to it.
“Sort of ironic, right?” he asked, and Brady nodded.
“Yes,” he said simply. “He… I didn’t know him well, but by all accounts he, uhm, won’t be missed.”
Ace snorted. “That was mighty unprofessional of you. I approve. Why are you giving me this gift of an SUV from heaven again?”
Brady had to beg. “I really want a better look at your beautiful car.”
And a miracle occurred. This hard man’s face softened a little. “It’s Sonny’s baby,” he said. “You stay here and I’ll ask him. Won’t lie. Got a friend who’ll probably need that Subaru. A donation never hurts. But it ain’t my call.”
Brady knew his eyes widened, because this man… this man seemed to be in charge of his domain, and for a moment he wondered what kind of man he would have to defer to in order for Brady to get closer to the car. The vee-hi-cul.
He put his hands in his pockets and waited until Ace disappeared around the corner into the auto bay before sauntering closer to the opening, hoping to hear the conversation.
“Sonny, you wanna work on a Subaru?” Well, Brady thought. That was blunt.
“They payin’ us?”
“Yeah, they’re paying us a Subaru Forester, slightly dented, but I’m bettin’ the engine’s sound, and we might have need of one of those.”
Brady heard a hawk and a spit. “Ain’t had a project since the Kia, and that’s about ready to go live with Ernie. What’s the hitch?”
“Guy wants to pet your baby.”
There was a clatter of what was probably bolts in an oil pan and some swearing that made Brady widen his eyes.
“He wants to fucking what?” the mysterious Sonny finished with, and Ace’s voice next sounded… well, odd. If Brady hadn’t just met the man and found him as cuddly as a cactus, Brady would have said he sounded tender.
“Sonny, quit moving and let me help you. Yeah, you’re bleeding. Jesus, if you could stop jumping like a fucking Chihuahua every time something new is mentioned, we’d go through fewer Band-Aids. Yeah, I’ll get the bolts. You start washing your hands so we can get your head.”
“Don’t know why I’m washing my hands if you’re gonna doctor me.” Sonny sounded young in that moment, and sullen. And hurt.
“Well, maybe I’m gonna have you shake hands with the young police officer lurking around the corner listening to us,” Ace said, some humor lacing his tone.
“And then we’re gonna show him your car, ’cause I think he’s got a crush, and it would mean something to him to pet it.
You remember what that’s like, right, Sonny?
Wanting something like that so bad you just wanted to touch it? ”
And then Sonny said the thing that knocked Brady off his course for the rest of his life.
“You talking about you or the car, Ace?”
It was the little bit of flirt in that voice, and Ace’s warmth when he returned it, that grabbed Brady Carnegie by the balls and shook him hard.
“Either one, now, Sonny. But we’re only letting him touch the car.”
“Fine,” Sonny huffed. “He can’t sit in the driver’s seat, though. Only you can do that.”
“Or Burton,” Ace said, no bullshit in his voice.
“Fine.”
Then Ace raised his voice, meant to carry. “Officer Carnegie, you can come round here, if you need to. Let me patch Sonny up, and he’ll be happy to show you the SHO.”
Brady rounded the corner and saw a neat, obviously newly repaired garage, with a sunken workstation under a cattle guard so a grown man could work on the underside.
In this case, it was a newly painted blue Kia on the rack.
In the corner, a smaller man—smaller than Ace anyway—sat on a stool and waited patiently for Ace to wipe a divot on his forehead with some antiseptic, before putting a butterfly bandage on it.
Brady studied him curiously, figuring he was in his early twenties—Ace was maybe four, five years older—and what Brady’s mother would call “puny.” He was slender, with wiry limbs that spoke of lots of hard work and good food now, but of lots of malnutrition and some bad times as a kid.
He had blond hair, slicked back from his head like he wore a hat like Ace’s, and as Brady walked in, he turned a stunning pair of gray eyes, set in a fierce triangle face, toward him.
Ah. Not conventionally handsome—but definitely appealing. And Ace, who could probably have had any man, gay or straight, in the lower half of the state, was gazing at him softly, like he didn’t care who saw them.
“This that guy?” Sonny asked, and while the question was rude, it wasn’t rudely asked—more like Sonny didn’t want to make a mistake.
“Yessir, he is.” Ace turned toward Brady, the gauze and such in his hand. “Give me a sec and I’ll shake on it and make it official. Brady’s doing us a solid, and I think he just wants to talk cars with a fan. Since it’s your baby, I figured you’d do the honors.”
Brady hadn’t felt this awkward since his mother had arranged a playdate for him in the sixth grade. The sixth grade. If the other kid hadn’t loved Hot Wheels as much as Brady had, the whole thing would have spelled social disaster.
Sonny turned toward Ace and said, “I can move now?”
“Yeah, Sonny, you can move.”
Sonny gave him a blinding grin and then turned toward Brady, hand extended. “Nice to meet you, Officer Carnegie. It was real nice of you to give us a car. Wanna see my baby?”
Brady extended his hand and they had a hard good ol’ boy handshake. “I’d love to.”