32. Dylan
Chapter 32
Dylan
S ince Jake is on at the fire station tonight, there’s no reason for me to rush home. I contacted the commercial real estate agent he sent me and will start boxing some things up just to make the task of doing everything all at once not quite so daunting.
“Hey, Dyl? Any chance you’ve got my adjustable wrench over there?”
“Yeah, neither the number two or the number three on the fixed set would give me enough room to loosen this bolt.”
“Take your time with it, I’ll move to something else until you’re done.”
I hear the wheels of his creeper rolling around as he moves under the car he’s working on and I smile, happy with my decision to sell the shop and relocate. I enjoyed the part of town Phoenix’s house is in and plan to see what my dad thinks about maybe moving out that way. I’m also smiling because I don’t have to give this up. This working relationship between my dad and I is so easy. We like the same music, we use the same tools, we know each other’s schedule, how each other works, how we like the shop organized. All the little things that can become big things if you get people who are polar opposites on any of the points above.
“I’m having dinner with Javier and Lita tonight so I’m going to head out in about an hour. You and Cass want me to bring anything back?”
“I’m good, thanks. Maybe check with her though?”
I wait the hour until he’s gone before I start boxing things up. It’s been easier to stay on top of repairs since we’ve lost so much of our business recently.
I grab a box that’s holding two reams of printer paper, unload the paper, and start filling the box with all the sentimental knick-knacks a shop can hold after so many years. It doesn’t take long before I need another box.
Fuck, this is such an overwhelming task.
I mosey into the office to see Cassie’s still behind the desk and she’s actually with a customer.
“Hey, Mr. Jenkins,” I hold my hand out to one of our long-time customers. An older man in his seventies, he’s on our town council and as it’s election year, I’ve seen his campaign signs all over town. He has an old BMW M3 he brings in for a tune up every year. “Is it time for the M3’s annual check-up?”
Mr. Jenkins clasps my hand and smiles. “Hey, Dylan. Sure is.” He scans my face and makes that face people do when they’re thinking about something — like he’s sucking on his teeth. “You guys going to be able to keep up alright when the revitalization down here starts taking place?”
“Revitalization?” I repeat. This is news to me.
“Yeah, there’s a new brewery going in and an urban art gallery, I think. Won’t be long before the whole street looks different. Drawing in a different crowd.”
“Here? With all the increased crime?” I ask bewildered.
“Seems so. Best time to buy property is when people are desperate to unload it.”
I think about his words and look at my sister.
Motherfucker.
“Mr. Jenkins, if you’ll excuse me. I need to make a call.”
I practically run into the garage and dial Jake’s number. He doesn’t answer so I call him right back. It takes four calls, but eventually he picks up the phone.
“Dyl, everything okay? I was in a—”
“Jake, I think you were right. I think Martin Cosey is behind the vandalism attacks. At least, his money is.”
“What makes you so sure? I scoured those real estate deals, Dyl. Nothing was out of place. Hell, he even offered slightly above asking price.”
I tell him about the conversation I just had with Rick Jenkins and the words he just said.
“Think about it. Martin wanted that condo complex, but he couldn’t comfortably afford it and the construction on the shopping center after so many recent purchases. So, he’s somehow increasing the crime rate over here, dropping our property values, gobbling up what hits the market and before long, he’ll own the whole street for pennies on the dollar. Then he can turn this street into whatever he was going to do with the other place. Hell, he’s already leased Betty and Carl’s place out to a brewery.”
Jake stays silent so long I have to say his name to make sure the call is still connected.
“Yeah, I’m here. Do me a favor and don’t mention this to anyone else just yet. If you’re right, this could involve a lot of corrupt city officials and unfortunately, I’ve recently pissed off the most powerful of them all.”
“Yeah, okay.”
We end the call and as much as I want to tell my dad what I’ve just discovered, I keep my mouth shut, except now I don’t know what to do. If there’s any chance we don’t have to sell the shop after all, then putting shit in boxes doesn’t make sense.
Cassie helps me out when she comes into the office with Mr. Jenkins’ keys and a tag that has the requested services listed. Placing them in my hand she quirks a brow.
“What are you thinking?” She cocks a hip like she’s ready to do battle.
“I’m thinking some seriously shady shit is going on.”
“Same. I assume you talked to Jake already?”
“You assume correctly. I just got off the phone with him. He asked us to keep this information to ourselves for now.”
“You don’t think…” she starts, but I cut her off angrily.
“Cassie, don’t even say it. I don’t know if getting involved with Jake is what dragged us into this mess or if getting involved with him is the only reason we might survive it, but either way, he’s not responsible for the shit that’s been going on. I know him.”
“I want to believe you, but the timing is a little suspicious and coming out with you would be a really good way to make himself appear innocent.”
I won’t doubt him. Cassie’s always been protective of me — over protective of me — but this is too much.
“Cass, I love you, but you’re wrong. I need to keep my hands busy while I process this and Jake’s on at the fire station tonight. Why don’t you close the office and head home? I won’t be too long.”
Knowing she’s set me on edge, she wraps her arms around my waist.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. I just don’t want you to be blinded by love.”
“I hear you, but you need to hear me . Jake wouldn’t do this. He’s losing even more than we are. ”
She stands on her toes and kisses my cheek. “I know. It was just a thought. I’ll see you at home.”
When the door that leads into the office closes, I walk out front, slip into Mr. Jenkins’ M3 and pull it into the open bay. The sun is going down and the air has a bite to it so I lower the bay door after getting the car situated, locking it into place. I hate how uneasy I feel in my own space these days.
I crank up Beautiful Deceit on the speaker as I start the familiar, if tedious, process of checking fluids, belts, and hoses on the old M3.
I’ve been at it about an hour when I get a whiff of gas and start checking the lines to the tank of the car. I might have jostled something that exposed a leak somewhere. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time.
But I come up empty. Everything looks good.
The scent slowly grows stronger so I wonder if my dad or I accidentally left one of the cans open and the fumes are starting to build since lowering the door.
But as I check the cans, they’re all tightly closed. I pull on the door to the office to see if anything is amiss inside, but the door’s locked. Why would Cassie lock this door?
Grumbling, I walk over to the bay door and throw the lock before leaning down to hoist the door up. The slide lock gives easily, but the door doesn’t budge.
“What the hell?” I mutter, walking to the back bay door only to find the same thing. Both doors are unlocked from the inside, but neither will open.
Because the front and back of the shop are gigantic garage doors, the only windows are fourteen feet in the air. They let sunlight in, but are usually useless since the doors are open ninety-five percent of the time we’re in here.
“Well, shit.”
I’m headed to grab my phone when I start to smell smoke.
“Oh, fuck. ”
Placing the back of my hand on the door to the office, it’s warm, but I remember Jake had reinforced fire doors installed as part of the upgrade, so hopefully that’ll buy me some time to get the bay doors open since I won’t be able to break through to get to the office.
Jake asked for them.
Don’t fucking go there. Focus on getting out of the shop.
I call 9-1-1 and am connected to the dispatcher when I notice the floor under the garage door is wet. That’s when I see it, flames are blocking that exit as well. Not that it even counts as an exit right now. The worst part? We keep all of our flammable liquids next to the bay doors. Because they tend to be noxious, we keep them in the most well-ventilated area.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
“My building is on fire and all the exits are blocked. I’m locked in and can’t get out.”
I’m standing in an oven.
Falsely, I think I have a little bit of time because concrete doesn’t burn particularly fast, but just as I have the thought, I watch a blue can of acetone explode, sending a shower of sparks out to neighboring cans.
I rattle off our address and ask them to hurry, reiterating that I can’t get the doors open and smoke is starting to fill the space.
Not one to allow death to claim me easily, I try throwing anything I can find through the windows at the top of the doors, but quickly realize I’d need to do it from a ladder and smoke is billowing in the space above me. Stop, drop, and roll noticeably does not include the phrase climb a ladder and get as high as you can.
We have a sink in the shop that I turn on full blast but the flames are spreading faster than the water is filling up my bucket. I quickly wet a shop towel and tie it around my face to try and screen some of the smoke.
With flames now coming under both bay doors, I call Cassie.
“Cass, I need you. The shop’s on fire and I’m locked in.”
“ What!? Locked in? That doesn’t make any sense. I was the last one there. I never lock the door to the garage.”
“I called 9-1-1, but I can’t get the bay doors open.”
“I’m coming. Get down low. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! ” I hear her mutter. “Stay on the phone with me. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
No, she won’t. Our house is twelve minutes away, hitting all the lights right and with absolutely zero traffic. And while that may not seem terribly far, it might just prove to be a death sentence today.
“Cass, I need to call Jake.”
“If you already called 9-1-1, then you already called Jake. He’s at the fire station, remember? He’s probably already on his way to you. Just hold on. We’re coming.”
The rag only buys me a minute or two because all bets are off when a burning beam falls from our twenty-foot ceiling and lands on a work station laden with shop towels and paint thinner, spreading the fire faster. I keep the sink running and try splashing as much water as I can around me while trying to stay low to the ground with my face buried in the wet rag.
The last thought I have before I black out from smoke inhalation is that I hope I at least get to see my mom.