Chapter 14 Dues, Son. Dues. #2
GEORGE AND Ernie rather liked working at the garage.
Most of the time, one or the other of them would work the cashier’s cubicle, but Jai had taught them how to use the diagnostic equipment too.
They could tell somebody if their tires were balanced, if they needed an oil change, if their belts were going, and then give them options.
Some customers would choose to pay a nominal fee and try to get across the desert to wherever they were going—although Baker was a no-go because Ace and Sonny were still the best equipped garage east of LA.
Some customers would take the option of staying in one of the small hotels in Victoriana proper while waiting for their part to come in—for some of them, staying in town wasn’t an option.
And some of them—usually the richer ones—would opt to have their vehicles towed to their destination where some “less colorful” mechanics could take care of their transportation, and this always made the people at the garage snicker because they knew that “less colorful” also meant “less skilled,” and they looked forward to seeing those people on the return trip when whatever they’d thought had been repaired busted again.
George and Ernie couldn’t do any of the detailed stuff—but the basic triage that told them how long a thing would take and whether or not they had the parts, that they could do.
And in this case, while not as skilled as Ace or Jai—and definitely not on par with Sonny—Dimitri turned out to be able-bodied and competent, and they all managed a working rhythm during that morning, most of it revolving around patching tires.
It seemed a roadwork site that floated between the roadblocks was leaving stupid little bits of metal everywhere, and there were a lot of pissed-off people with holes in tires that should have had thousands of miles left on the tread.
“I swear to God,” George said, after sending a distraught mother of three across the interstate to get her kids an ice cream and wait half an hour for Dimitri to patch the tire, “it’s like the cops in this area are a disease, spreading contagion with every damned move.”
Ernie didn’t crack a smile. He gazed at George through the scratched security Plexiglas and said, “We are incredibly lucky both roadblocks moved west of Victoriana, period. The shit going down near Baker is not conducive to good health.”
George paused then and swallowed. “You’d know, right—”
Ernie’s gaze focused, and he gave a faint smile.
“I’d know,” he reassured. “I’m just….” He shook his head.
“God, George, I’m so strung out right now.
I feel like I’m floating. I’m getting glimpses of all of them, including…
.” He swallowed. “Just… they may need you. Eric stopped the bleeding in his leg, but he’s going to—”
“Oh Lord. Should I tell Amal?” Shit. George was already attached to their two new people. He couldn’t help it; he did like a community.
“A-neg and B-pos,” Ernie said, and then looked surprised like he did sometimes. He frowned then. “Check on Dimitri in the pit,” he said.
George didn’t ask, just hurried to the inside of the auto bay and hollered down, “Dimitri, how’s your feet?”
“I am resting now, thank you,” Dimitri called back. “I finished patching the tire—if you would like to back the vehicle out, we will be ready for the next one.”
George hurried to comply, reflecting that he’d gotten better at simple driving things—like backing cars out without checking behind him six-zillion times—since spending some of his off hours helping Ace and Sonny out.
Funny how backing out a car while palming the wheel made you feel like king of the road.
George had finished doing that, parking the car near the hardpan driveway, when he saw the cruiser slowing down off the interstate.
“Incoming,” he hollered, and Ernie replied, “Critical!”
Oh shit. “What does that mean?” George asked.
“Is no worries,” Dimitri said. “I am prepared.”
“George, get in the cubicle,” Ernie said calmly, “I’m opening the gun safe.”
Oh shit. George didn’t walk—he sprinted. And he was there, facing the Plexiglass—the bulletproof Plexiglas, while Ernie knelt under the counter to open the safe that held guns, both registered and unregistered, when the cruiser swung under the shade overhang of the auto bay.
George knew there had been a concerted effort to protect him in the last year since he’d come to the desert, but he also wasn’t stupid.
That the swaggering, unpleasant man who alighted from the cruiser had parked his vehicle out of sight from the road hadn’t escaped his attention, and if this went badly, George was pretty sure nobody would miss this guy until the shouting was over.
His stomach clenched, because as the guy drew near, it became increasingly apparent that there would be shouting.
“What can I do for you, Officer?”
“You the owner?” the man asked, sounding dubious.
He was a young guy—maybe mid-twenties, and he might have been handsome in a bland, sandy-haired, blue-eyed way.
George knew this look—he wore it himself, but he also knew that when he peered in the mirror, his eyes were usually animated, excited, happy—even bemused.
This man, who was George’s age with George’s build and general ancestry, had eyes as flat as a snake’s.
“No, sir,” George said cheerfully. “Owners take Mondays off.” He didn’t want to say “we” are filling in. He wasn’t sure if this man would guess how many of them there were.
“I need you to come out from behind that partition,” the man said, putting his hand on his hip, and if George hadn’t been expecting trouble, he would have been surprised.
As it was, he was ready to not be surprised.
“Why?” George asked, keeping his voice puzzled. Next to him, he heard the click of a semiautomatic weapon as Ernie checked for bullets in the chamber, made sure the slide and the hammer were clean, set the weapon up to be fired with minimum risk to the person pulling the trigger.
“I need you to come out of there with your hands up,” the cop repeated, pulling his weapon out.
George put his hands up on general principle. “As you can see,” he said, trying to deescalate, “I am unarmed. I am working on my day off here to help my friends run their small business. What do you suspect here?”
“This place is hinky,” the deputy declared. “The sheriff wants it searched, top to bottom, and that starts with you.”
George really hoped his Plexiglas held. “So he has a warrant to search a private business, I assume,” he said.
The deputy glared. “You do not need to be claiming your rights here—”
“You are drawing a gun on an unarmed man,” George said. “For no apparent reason. I took my civics courses, sir. You are not allowed to search a private business without a warrant or probable cause. Do you not see the cameras here?”
George looked up at the most obvious security camera, but not the only one. This man had been recorded since he pulled into the hardpan driveway.
But then, even George and Ernie could doctor the security feed if there was something nobody else needed to see.
The deputy glanced up at the camera with some alarm, but he didn’t put his gun down.
Instead, he scoped out the cashier’s cabin, taking in that the door to the place opened up inside the auto bay, while the Plexiglas with the divoted stainless steel cashier counter served as a sort of fishbowl to the outside world.
Frowning in concentration, his gun still out as he edged his way into the auto bay, the man scowled at the very sturdy steel-reinforced door.
He came out again, still scowling at George, and Ernie’s hand wrapped around George’s ankle in an attempt to steady them both.
“It must be hot as hell in there,” he snarled.
“Nope,” George said cheerfully. “Fully involved AC, two fans, and a fairly comfy stool. My bosses are nice people.”
“Where are they again?” Deputy Daily—as the name on his uniform proclaimed—sneered.
“Got no idea,” George said, which was the truth. “They’re… you know. On their day off. Sometimes they run errands. Sometimes they go to Disneyland. It’s a crapshoot.”
“Well, I don’t even know their names,” the deputy scoffed.
“It’s on their business license, moron,” Ernie muttered, and the man’s eyes practically sparkled with an excuse to escalate the situation.
“What did you say?”
“Their names are on the business license,” George told him patiently, as though he’d said it originally.
“A copy of which is on the corkboard near the door, along with the latest safety protocols and factory recalls. You can see it if you move to the side.” Ace kept everything as legal as possible, for instances just like this one.
“Don’t get smart with me!” Deputy Daily snarled. “Get your ass out of there!”
“No,” George told him, wondering what would happen to Dimitri if Daily figured out George wasn’t alone.
“Get out of there before I shoot you through the glass, you little puke!”
“And the door will still be locked, and the first responders on the scene will check the security feed and see you, you corrupt piece of shit!” George snarled. “You haven’t given me any reason to trust you—”
Had the shot penetrated the Plexiglas, it would have gone straight through George’s skull.
George stared at the network of tiny cracks emanating from the bullet’s impact, and wondered how many of those earth-shattering stops the Plexiglas had in it, and then he realized his ears were ringing.
“Get the fuck out of there and tell me where your bosses are!” Daily screamed, and he was practically foaming at the mouth. George found his temper.
“Why?” he shouted. “What do you think they have? What are you so worried about that you brought a gun and an attitude to a garage in the middle of nowhere?”