Chapter 11
Frank’s Tire & Auto is a mile up the road.
It’s an old building made of brick painted white.
The brick and grout have been covered in so many coats that the imperfections have been filled and smoothed to almost nothing.
The building’s exterior is beginning to look more like white vinyl than paint.
The garage has three bays, and Clay sees Wags standing in one of them, reaching up to work on the undercarriage of a car that’s on the hydraulic lift.
Wags stands about just under six feet and has a wiry frame and a six-months-pregnant beer belly.
His black hair lies straggly and unwashed under a gray cap that matches his overalls.
Clay knew Wags when they were kids and back then didn’t have a problem with him.
Nice enough guy. Not blessed with brains or a work ethic, but he wasn’t a bad kid.
But kids have hopes and dreams and when those aspirations turn to shit, kids can grow into unpleasant adults.
Clay doesn’t think Wags is violent, but he also doesn’t think it’s a good idea to connect Steph to the upcoming conversation.
He pulls his hat down tight on his head, hoping its years of use without a wash will not only hide his professionally groomed hair, but also the scent of shampoo and conditioner.
“Hey, Wags,” says Clay when he’s a few feet outside the garage.
It takes a moment to recognize who’s walking toward him. “Oh, hey, Clay.” He doesn’t sound thrilled.
“Got a minute?” says Clay. “Want to ask you about something.”
“A minute,” says Wags. “Got to get this done by four.”
“I seem to have misplaced my uncle. Wondering if you’ve seen him recently.”
Wags wipes his hands on a greasy rag. “Teddy?”
“Only uncle I got,” says Clay.
“Why you asking me?” says Wags.
“Because I’m asking everyone. And you fit into the category of everyone.”
Wags thinks for a moment, then says, “I saw him last week at Knut’s. Beat him three out of five in nine-ball. Cost him a six-pack of Schell’s.”
“Sounds like Teddy. Did he pay up?” says Clay.
“Yep. That very night. Ran to the liquor store and returned with a brown paper bag. Teddy always pays his debts. You can count on him for that.”
“Can you count on him for anything else?” says Clay.
“What do you mean by that?” says Wags.
“Did you two have any extracurricular projects together? Any side businesses? For fun or profit?”
“What are you getting at, Clay?”
Clay has to be careful here. He doesn’t want to involve Steph in this.
“I was talking to Mike Wahlquist and Andy Kimmich this morning at Betty-Mae’s.
They told me to make sure I park my truck in the garage at night.
Said someone’s been stealing catalytic converters.
I asked if they know who it is, and they said they had a pretty good idea it was you.
But no one has stepped forward to press charges yet, so unless they catch you in the act, there’s not a whole lot they can do. ”
“That’s bullshit,” says Wags.
“I don’t know,” says Clay. “They seemed pretty confident that it’s you. You’re welcome for the heads-up, by the way. And Teddy has got mixed up in his share of mischief over the years, so I thought maybe he got himself involved with you. Tough for Teddy to say no to making a quick buck.”
Wags just shakes his head. “I got nothing to do with any stolen catalytic converters. The only time I touch one is to install it on a car that had one stolen. Or if someone’s went bad, but that doesn’t happen all that often.
And if I was stealing catalytic converters and needed help, I wouldn’t go to Teddy Hawkins. ”
“Why not?” says Clay.
“Because he’s too old. You’d need someone young and spry who can wriggle under a parked car. If Teddy tried that, it’d take him ten minutes to get back onto his feet and another ten minutes until his head stopped spinning.”
“Sounds like you have some experience with catalytic converter theft.”
Wags tosses the greasy rag onto a rolling tool cabinet. “I’m an auto mechanic. I know how to install and remove parts. What’s the real reason you’re here, Clay?”
Clay knows he has the upper hand. He believes that Steph told the truth.
She found a box of catalytic converters in the back of her toolshed.
Steph doesn’t need to pin a crime on Wags to make her divorce go easier.
She’s the breadwinner. Her kids are in high school—Wags can’t take them away from her. It’s Wags who’s doing all the lying.
“Teddy’s missing,” says Clay. “I’m trying to find out where he might be. That means finding out if he’s caught up in something he shouldn’t be. I heard you’re caught up in something you shouldn’t be. I know you and Teddy spend time together. I’m just doing the math and checking my results.”
“I had nothing to do with Teddy disappearing,” says Wags. “I think the real reason you’re here is to pin something on me so I’m not in your way anymore. So you have a clean shot at Steph with me out of the picture. She’s your first love, right? That never goes away.”
Clay’s had enough of Wags. He honestly can’t read much into the denials.
Just because Wags is lying about stealing catalytic converters doesn’t mean he’s lying about Teddy’s involvement.
Clay says, “Last I heard Steph is a married woman. Not my style.” Then Clay walks out of the bay and gets in his truck.
Clay decides to make one more stop. Hensel Metals is a ten-minute drive north toward Rochester.
Clay parks at the far end of the lot, trying to minimize the chance of his tires eating a nail or a sharp-edged piece of scrap metal.
He walks the designated path of safety toward the office, passing mounds of twisted metal.
The scrapyard has three giant machines: One a crane with jaws to grab the scrap metal and move it from one pile to another.
The other a shredder that cuts up appliances and coins and pipes.
The third a crusher to smash cars and trucks and other large metal objects.
Clay can’t think of a more fun place to hang out—that is, if you’re eight years old and like breaking stuff.
He isn’t looking forward to seeing Bobby Hensel.
When Clay was growing up, Bobby was a bully and a thief who had a fondness for harassing Clay.
The torment only increased after Clay left public school for Dorset-Cornwall.
Not in frequency, because Clay was at that elite private institution on the hill, but in intensity.
It was almost enough to make Clay want to live in a dorm at school so he’d never have to run into Bobby.
As Clay grew bigger and stronger and more athletic, he was tempted to pay back Bobby for all the anguish he’d caused him, but Clay never wanted to risk his ticket out of Riverwood.
He didn’t want to get hurt, and he didn’t want to get arrested.
One thing about being the son of the police chief in a small community—Judd couldn’t show Clay any favoritism or the entire community would cry foul.
The office is built out of a few old shipping containers welded together with cutouts for doors and windows and HVAC and plumbing.
Clay hesitates outside the entrance. He hasn’t spoken to Bobby since returning to Riverwood.
He’s seen him a few times but neither Clay nor his old nemesis has ventured a hello.
Clay isn’t much looking forward to it now, but this is about Teddy, not him.
Besides, he’s grown up now. He’s faced far scarier characters than Bobby Hensel on and off the pitch.
Clay enters and scans the building for alternative exits.
A service door on the south side of the building.
A lift-up garage door on the north side.
He approaches the counter where a young man sits reading a book.
He has voluminous curly black hair and round wire-rim glasses and wears a button-down shirt of blue oxford.
His face is stubbly save for a full mustache and an accompanying jazz dot in the center of his chin.
The young man looks up from his book and says, “May I help you?”
“Yeah,” says Clay, “is Bobby Hensel around?”
“He’s out back at the moment. Should be in here pretty soon. Anything I can do for you in the meantime?”
“Are you related to Bobby?” says Clay.
“Yeah,” he says, not particularly proud of that fact. “I’m Eli, his son.”
“Nice to meet you, Eli.” He shakes the man’s hand, feeling it odd that a former classmate has a son Eli’s age, even though Judd was only twenty-one when Clay was born. “Clay Hawkins. I knew your dad in the olden days. What are you reading?”
“Anna Karenina,” says Eli, holding up the book. “I’m obsessed. People always go on and on about War and Peace, but it’s not in the same league as this book.”
“I agree,” says Clay.
“You’ve read them?” says Eli, sounding both surprised and delighted.
“Both,” says Clay. He smiles. “You don’t seem like the typical scrapyard worker.”
Eli shakes his head. “Just trying to save up enough money to move to England. My dad won’t help. He wants me to stay and work here.”
“Where in England?” says Clay.
“London,” says Eli. “I just graduated from the University of Minnesota with a degree in English lit. I’m ready to write my first novel. A retelling of Oliver Twist in modern times. I want the book to be faithfully accurate to today’s London the way Dickens’s was to the London of his time.”
“I played a lot of matches in London.”
“Oh, wait. Are you the soccer player?”
“The one and only.”
“I’ve heard about you. Do you mind if we grab a drink sometime so I can pick your brain about the move?”
“Happy to,” says Clay.
“I figure it’ll take me a year to save up enough money. And that’s living bare bones. I had to put myself through college by working at a scrapyard in the cities, but I couldn’t save a dime. I signed up for one year of servitude, then I’m out of here. Can. Not. Wait.”
“I know the feeling. Hey, Eli, I do have a question for you. Does anyone come in here trying to sell catalytic converters? You know, more than one?”
Bobby Hensel emerges from a door behind the counter. He wears grease-stained coveralls complete with an embroidered patch on his right pec that reads ROBERT. He has a few days’ growth on his face, salt-and-pepper stubble, and dull, brown, bloodshot eyes.
He takes one look at Clay and says, “Fuckin’ A. I heard you were back in town.”
“How are you, Bobby?” says Clay. “Been a while.”
Bobby points to his name patch. “It’s Robert now. Bobby was a child.”
Clay hates when people start going by their full given name after decades of going by the less-formal version.
John becomes Jonathan. Becky becomes Rebecca.
Gus becomes August. Lizzy becomes Elizabeth.
It’s a last-ditch effort at respectability, thinks Clay.
One that requires no work or merit. He sure as hell isn’t going to insist people call him Clayton.
“Nice to see you again, Robert.”
“He wants to know if we buy catalytic converters,” says Eli.
“You trying to unload some?” says Robert, FKA Bobby. He may have changed his name, but he has the same mean smile. “You finally hit on hard times, Clay?”
Clay puts a pleasant smile on his face. He can think of a few satisfying comebacks to Robert’s question but doesn’t want to play that game, especially in front of Eli, whom Clay likes and feels sorry for. Instead he just says, “My uncle Teddy is missing.”
“Yeah,” says Robert. “Heard about that.”
“Teddy’s had his troubles in the past, and I’m wondering if maybe he’s out there stealing catalytic converters to raise a little cash. This is the closest scrapyard to Riverwood, so I thought I’d stop in and ask if Teddy’s been in here.”
“Nope,” says Robert. “Besides, I won’t touch a catalytic converter anymore.
They’re all stolen. It would have to be stamped with a vehicle identification number and the person bringing it in would have to show me a pink slip with that same number on it for me to even consider taking it.
I run a respectable business here, Clay. I don’t need any trouble with the law.”
“Of course not,” says Clay. “Neither of you have happened to see Teddy around, have you?”
“I’m sorry,” says Eli. “I don’t know him.”
“Midsixties,” says Clay. “Long hair. Kind of looks like Neil Young.”
“Oh, that guy,” says Eli. “Yeah. No. Haven’t seen him for a while, and never up here.”
“Same,” says Robert. “Sorry. Wish we could be of some help.”
“I appreciate your time,” says Clay. “Nice meeting you, Eli. And good to see you again, Robert.”
Robert laughs. “Is it?”
“We were kids, Robert. We were just kids.”