Chapter 6
Clem
“Uh, Lutton is that way.”
As I turn left, Remi points at the sign indicating Lutton is straight ahead.
“We’re not going there,” I share.
“Didn’t you say the junkyard was just outside Lutton?”
“I did, but they don’t have the part I was looking for. Wally Shirk does.”
Remi showed up at the firehouse a little after four, wearing old clothes, as I’d suggested. He was surprised when he saw we were taking the flatbed truck. He seemed excited and didn’t hesitate climbing into the cab.
“Wally Shirk?”
“He’s ancient and owns a small yard along the 395, outside Kettle Falls. He’s been around forever, and so has a lot of older vehicles on his lot. If I can’t find something at the Lutton yard, I call Wally.”
My response seems to appease him and silence settles back over the cab. I do notice he is paying active attention to the passing landscape, occasionally sipping from the bottle of water I’d tossed him on our way out the door.
“So how come we’re taking the flatbed? I thought we were just picking up parts.”
The boy is pretty chatty, which is a bit of a change from the sullen, quiet kid from last Saturday. Not that I’m complaining; I’m glad he’s coming out of his shell a little, but I’m under no illusions that’s necessarily a permanent change. In my limited experience, teenagers are most often moody.
“In case we run into trouble and out of daylight—seized bolts sometimes need soaking to get them to loosen up—we may need to load up the entire vehicle,” I explain.
“Won’t that cost more?”
“Yeah, some, but there’s probably other pieces and parts I can salvage and use. The grille we’re getting is for a good customer who prefers original parts on his classic Bronco, and there’s another older model that we work on from time to time. The extra parts will come in handy at some point.”
“Makes sense,” Remi mumbles before falling back into the more customary silence.
It lasts the rest of the drive, until I pull into Wally’s yard, and the kid gets a load of the vintage vehicle carcasses stacked against the chain-link fence on either side of the gate.
Rusted and almost melded together, the stacks almost look like sculptures.
Only a few are still recognizable as an old Corvette, a classic Volkswagen bus, and even an antique Studebaker.
“Whoa,” he mutters, leaning forward to look at the collection of bumpers welded together to form the gate.
I glance over, and the kid looks like a five-year-old on his first visit to Disney World; his head is almost pivoting off his neck, as his eyes dart around the yard beyond.
Wally is sitting on a rusted porch swing, smoking his pipe as he watches us approach. When we get closer, his eyes fix on Remi, who is two steps behind me.
“Who the hell are you?” the old man barks, clenching his pipe between his teeth.
“The kid works for me,” I jump in.
Wally takes the pipe from his mouth. “You into child labor now?”
At that the boy steps up beside me, his focus on the old curmudgeon.
“I’ll be sixteen next month,” he states, showing some backbone. “My name is Remi Androtti, nice to meet you, sir.”
Well, I’ll be damned. That sure as hell takes me by surprise; the kid has some manners after all.
“Androtti. Sounds Italian.”
He pronounces it eye-talian.
“My father was,” Remi responds.
Wally picks up on the past tense as well, but doesn’t have any filters.
“Was? Is he dead?”
The kid shakes his head.
“Nah. He’s just not in our lives anymore.”
At that, Wally narrows his eyes as he scoffs.
“Let me guess, your mother cut off all contact,” he judges bitterly.
My guess is old Wally got burned at some point in his life, but that’s no reason to lay into the kid or vilify the boy’s mother. I’m about to let him know, in no uncertain terms, he’s way out of line, but Remi is faster.
“You’d be wrong,” the kid sneers. “I cut him off after I walked in on him hitting my mother. He just made it easier when he moved with his nineteen-year-old girlfriend to Cuba to avoid domestic assault charges or paying child support. He’s dead to me.”
With that Remi swings around and starts walking away.
“Shit,” Wally mumbles, looking duly schooled.
I shove my fisted hands in my pockets. As much as I’d like to fucking punch something right now, I’m not about to give in to a violent tendency around the kid.
Jesus, I had no idea what the story there was, but then again, I guess it’s the kind of history you don’t necessarily broadcast.
I’m gaining a little more understanding of what eats at this boy, and it even gives some insight into what makes his mother tick.
“Where’s the Bronco?”
I don’t bother scolding Wally, who got to his feet and is watching Remi disappear between the rows of discarded vehicles with rheumy eyes.
“The end of that row.” He jerks his chin in the direction the boy went. “Everett pulled it clear so you can get at it.”
After returning to the truck to grab my tools, I head out to find the Bronco, and hopefully Remi. He already found the vehicle, and has the hood open, leaning inside.
“How does it look?” I ask as I approach.
He whips his head around to dart a glance at me, but then quickly turns back, wiping his face on his shoulder.
Fuck.
If the kid is anything like me, he’d probably much prefer a root canal than having his feelings discussed, so I opt to pretend I didn’t see the emotions running down his cheeks.
“Rusted to hell?” I prompt, moving in beside him and leaning in under the hood to have a look.
The body is in pretty rough shape, and someone already raided the engine bay, taking whatever parts were easy to remove. The good thing is, that’ll give us a little more space to work, because the grille is bolted to the radiator support and the inside of the fenders.
I’m actually quite impressed Remi seems to know his stuff, since he is pointing at a badly rusted bolt that indeed is one that holds the grille in place.
“That one is pretty bad, but I think the others should be okay.”
I lean in farther to scan where I know the other bolts to be. The kid is right, most of them look surprisingly clean. I’m guessing the tarp Wally said he found the Bronco under helped to protect it from the worst of the elements.
“Looks like Everett may have sprayed some lube,” I observe.
“Everett?”
“Wally’s son,” I explain. “Grab the roll of gear wrenches from the tool bag, will ya? I think we’ll need the half-inch.”
The first two bolts are easily accessible and I manage to get them off with a little force. I can’t reach the other two on the inside fender though, my hands are too damn big.
I hand the wrench to Remi.
“See if you can get your hand in there,” I direct him.
“They’ll be tight, so start with little jerks to get some movement.
Sometimes tapping the head of the bolt can help loosen it up.
” I clap the kid on the shoulder. “While you take care of that, I’m gonna work on the side mirror, and take a peek inside to see if there’s anything else worth taking. ”
The mirror doesn’t take long, and I’m not really interested in anything else, but I want to give the kid a chance to finish the job without the extra pressure of me breathing down his neck.
When I hear him curse, I grin and decide to give him space. I’ll go have a look for that pickup Wally said might be around here somewhere.
You really have to have a sharp eye to spot the treasures in this graveyard of vehicles and old metal. Exploring a junkyard is like a sport to me, and I get a kick out of digging up useable stuff from the piles of crap. Feels like a win to walk away with something valuable to you.
I find it two rows over, a green Chevrolet C/K with what once was an off-white trim along the base of the fenders and doors.
Looks like it’s in pretty rough shape. The driver’s side front fender is missing, as is the tailgate, and it has quite a bit of rust I could put my fist through in some places.
The inside isn’t much better, with rips and holes in the seating, a missing gearshift and rearview mirror, and a crack in the dashboard.
But, it has all four of its wheels, albeit on flat tires, and more importantly—at a quick glance under the hood—the engine looks to be intact. I hold no illusions it would be working after having sat out here all this time, however, it could potentially be rebuilt.
The buzz of an electric engine draws my attention as Wally drives up in his golf cart.
“You found it.”
“Yeah. Pretty rough shape though,” I comment, setting the stage for what I’m sure will be another lengthy barter session.
The old man snorts but doesn’t speak, forcing me to open negotiations.
“What will you take for it?”
He looks over at the truck and nods his head, as if he’s trying to come up with a fair price.
“Thousand.”
Barking out a laugh, I start walking back to the Bronco. I grin when the buzz of the golf cart follows me.
“A 1979,” he calls after me. “It’s a popular model.”
“It’s a piece of scrap metal as it sits there,” I fire back over my shoulder. “Not worth more than maybe a hundred bucks, if that.”
“Bull hickey! It’s a collector’s item.”
“Yeah? It’s not doing anything but collecting dirt and rust rotting in your yard,” I point out as I round the corner.
Wally pulls his golf cart up alongside me.
“What do you want it for anyway?” he asks.
“I told you, it’s not for me.”
We’re just coming up on the Bronco when I hear an enthusiastic, “Hell yes!!” from under the hood.
I stop and turn to the old man.
“It’s the kid’s dream truck.”
Wally curses under his breath and turns his head away from me.
“You’re a pain in my ass, Tanek.”
I chuckle. “That’s not news, Wally.”
Suddenly the golf cart jerks forward as the old man rolls on, leaving me to follow behind.
“I got it off,” Remi announces proudly, showing me the grille he’d already pulled off the Bronco.
I raise my hand for a high five. He slaps it with his, unable to keep the grin off his face.
“Yo, kid,” Wally calls out.
The grin drops off Remi’s face when he turns to look at him.
“Yeah?”
“How much money you got in your pocket?”
The boy shoots me a puzzled look.
“Indulge him,” I urge.
Shoving his hand in his pocket, he pulls out a couple of bills and some coins.
“Twelve dollars and seventy-five cents.”
Wally holds out his gnarly, arthritis-riddled hand. “You got yourself a deal. Gimme that.”
Utterly confused, the kid walks over and hands him the crumpled bills and change.
“Congrats,” Wally states. “She’s yours.”
Then he drives away with Remi’s money.
“What just happened?”
I grin at the boy and grab the back of his neck.
“You just bought yourself a 1979 Chevrolet C/K series. Come on, I’ll show you.”
It’s already dark by the time I pull the flatbed truck into the rear parking lot of the firehouse.
Remi hasn’t been able to stop grinning, or checking the side mirror to catch a glimpse of the Chevy strapped to the bed. The kid’s pretty pumped.
“I’ll unload it tomorrow,” I tell him when we get out of the truck. “I’ve got a poker game to get to.”
My standing Thursday night game at The Kerrigan pub with a bunch of friends, and I don’t want to miss it.
“Okay.”
I can tell he’s a little disappointed, but he’s going to have to learn to be patient, because that’s what rebuilding the old wreck is going to require.
“Can I come tomorrow?”
“We’re going to have to sit down and have a talk with your mother first. I’m sure she’s not going to want this project to get in the way of you doing well in school, so you’re probably going to have to give her some guarantees.
Keep up grades, do your homework, that kind of stuff.
The three of us are gonna have to work out a schedule. ”
He’s obviously not pleased with that, but that’s too damn bad. He’s a smart kid, if he really wants this, he’ll learn to toe the line.
“Go home, Remi. I’ll touch base with your mom tomorrow, work out a time when we can hash this out.”
Grudgingly, he takes one last look at the pickup, and then walks over to his bike, swinging his leg over before riding off with a wave.
I hustle inside, hop in the shower for a quick rinse, change into clean clothes, and head back out to hop in my pickup. Normally, I’d walk the ten minutes it takes to get to the pub, but I’m already going to be late, and the guys will be watching the clock already.
I’m also going to have to get some pub grub there, I haven’t had dinner.
Stella Kerrigan, who owns the pub with her husband, Jacob, is a good cook.
However, there isn’t a lot that comes out of her kitchen one could consider “heart-healthy,” which is why I don’t often indulge.
But I’m starving and look forward to some fish and chips.
Pulling off the lot, I turn down the alley that cuts through to Main Street, when I notice something up ahead. The beam from my headlights catches a glint off the frame of a bicycle lying on the side of the alley.
Then I notice the still form of a body, rolled up against the side of the building, and slam on my brakes.