Chapter 1 #2
Turning the lights off in the shop—I’ll come back down later to finish replacing the hoses on that Infinity—I head up the open stairway to the second level and aim straight for the spacious open kitchen and the cold beer in my fridge.
Originally, the upper level had housed the living and sleeping quarters for the fire crew but, with some minor renovations, I’d turned it into a comfortable apartment for myself.
The insurance check I’d received for the old place hadn’t been enough to cover the cost of the fire hall, so I ended up selling the small house I’d called home for fifteen or so years to make up the difference.
I didn’t really have any emotional connection to the house anyway.
The shop was my home and I spent the bulk of my time there, but it had been somewhere to lay my head at night.
With the extra money I was able to make a few adjustments to this upper floor, and already it feels more like a home than the house ever did. Although I suspect the smell of motor oil that follows me up here has a little something to do with that.
Along with a beer, I pull a block of cheese from the fridge, cutting off a chunk to tide me over until I can get some dinner together.
I’m thinking I’ll cut up some vegetables and a couple of those spicy sausages I picked up, and toss them on a baking tray in the oven.
They can cook while I drink my beer and watch the news.
I’ve been trying to watch what I eat. I never took the time to cook much before, just popped a frozen dinner in the microwave or stopped in at the diner for something greasy.
It showed in the gut I’d been steadily growing since I hit my forties.
Then right after the fire, I went in to see the new doc for a checkup.
The guy warned me that with my high cholesterol and blood pressure, I was heading for a heart attack unless I started living healthier.
Seeing as my father dropped dead from a heart attack when he was just a few years older, I took the warning and made some adjustments.
A lot has changed this past year, and though I’m not normally a fan of changes, I feel I’ve landed in a pretty good place.
My business is steady, my health is better, I’ve got my friends, my Thursday night poker game, and a kick-ass place that feels like a home to put my feet up in at the end of the day. What else do you need?
After finishing up the dishes forty-five minutes later, I briefly consider leaving the Infinity until the morning, but end up heading back downstairs anyway.
The moment I flick on the bright overhead lights in the garage, I hear some noise out back.
A metallic clang, like something bumping the lid of the garbage container out there.
Maybe I startled something rummaging through the trash, it wouldn’t be the first time.
It’s not unheard of for wildlife to venture into town, looking for an easy meal at this time of year.
Grabbing a large wrench from the tool bench—I’m not about to potentially face off with a hungry bear empty-handed—I head toward the regular back exit next to the large bay door. Unlocking it, I ease it open, poking my head out.
At first, I don’t see anything. Nothing seems out of place in the back lot where we park vehicles still to be worked on and those waiting for owners to pick them up.
In the light escaping from the glass panes at the top of the large rolling door, I spot no bears, or any other creatures for that matter, hanging out by the dumpster.
But when I step outside, letting the door fall shut behind me, I can hear the sound of something scraping the gravel surface to my left.
Swinging my head around, I just catch a glimpse of a red sneaker disappearing under the frame of the Jeep Patriot Tim Saunders dropped off for an oil change and fluid top-up earlier this afternoon.
I slip my hand in my pocket to pull out my cell phone and turn on its flashlight as I duck down, shining it under the vehicle.
“Get your ass out from under there,” I bark at the wide-eyed teenager looking back at me. “Trust me, kid, you don’t want my fucking help.”
Wisely, the boy crawls out and scrambles to his feet. It takes me only a second to realize who it is.
Well, shit.
Then I quickly scan the Jeep, noticing a hack saw as well as a familiar part lying on the ground beside the vehicle.
“Really, kid? Surely you can find better things to do than pulling catalytic converters from vehicles a stone’s throw away from the sheriff’s station.”
“I wasn’t…I didn’t…” the punk stammers before snapping his mouth shut.
He realizes there is no denying with the evidence basically lying at his feet. I can see his eyes dart left and right, looking for the fastest escape route.
“I’m thinking your mom won’t be too pleased when I call it in.”
His mother being the sheriff office’s most recent addition, Tessa Androtti. I recognize her boy from a cookout at Bess and Hugo’s place they were at, toward the end of the summer.
“Please don’t,” the kid pleads, and in that moment, I see the vulnerable boy instead of the criminal teenager.
Fuck. Those big puppy dog eyes are getting to me, making me feel like a goddamn monster for even considering turning him in.
“How many?” I snap at him.
“What do you mean?” he returns, looking confused.
“Catalytic converters. How many did you drop?”
He indicates a white Ford F-150 a few spots down.
“That one too,” he admits.
Dammit. It’ll take up valuable time to install each of those again, adding to an already full workload for tomorrow.
“Do you know how much work it’s gonna be to fix those?”
It’s more of a rhetorical question, I don’t actually expect an answer, but the kid gives me one anyway.
“With the right tools, probably a couple of hours each.”
I regard him with a lifted eyebrow. “And you would know what the right tools are?”
This time he shrugs. “It’s not that hard.”
There’s something about his casual arrogance that reminds me of myself, thirty years ago. I decide to call his bluff.
“Well, in that case, I want your ass back here tomorrow morning at eight on the dot, and you can put your money where your mouth is.”
Now he looks shocked.
“You mean, I can go?”
I wag a finger in his face. “But if you’re not here at eight, I will personally walk over to the sheriff’s station and file charges. Right after I have a nice long talk with your mother,” I threaten.
As I watch the kid take off on his red sneakers, I realize this may not have been the wisest move on my part.
But the boy doesn’t strike me as a hardcore criminal.
If I’d venture a guess, he’s—at worst—a misguided kid who is heading down the wrong path.
I was that kid once, before my dad put me to work in the shop.
Who knows, maybe a little redirection of that energy, and some honing of what appears to be a passing interest in cars, will set the boy on the straight and narrow.
I’m just not sure how his mother will respond when she finds out.
I don’t think she likes me much.