18. Regan
Regan
“That’s right, Mr. Hatfield, sir. She’s good as new now.
We pulled the carburetor, stripped it down, cleaned it, replaced one of the jets and adjusted the floats.
Then we put her back together and checked the fuel lines and timing.
She’s running as smooth as silk now. Better than she’s run in years. ”
Old William Hatfield takes off his cap to wipe his brow, before replacing it again, his ginger hair—or what’s left of it—glowing almost flame red in afternoon sunshine.
“You boys do seem to do a fine job when it comes to the motor vehicles, I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hatfield,” I give him one of my dazzling smiles.
“We do our best to keep our customers happy. Now… bill comes to three hundred and sixty-seven bucks, including parts, labor and tax…” I see the look on his face out of the corner of my eye so decide to drop a little.
“But hell, we’ll call it a straight three-fifty, okay? ”
“Well, I guess,” the old boy grumbles. “Things sure don’t seem to get no cheaper round here. Like I say, you do fine work, but you don’t appear to mind charging top dollar for it.”
I give him another broad grin. “You want the best, you gotta pay for it, Mr. Hatfield,” I say. “But you know what, we’re actually a little cheaper than the MacDonald brothers over in Riverton, and people tell us we turn our jobs around faster.”
“True, true,” he drags an ancient wallet out from somewhere deep within his clothing and starts counting off notes. “You get stuff done. I can’t fault you on that.”
He hands over a bundle of notes and I ostentatiously make it obvious that I trust him and ain’t about to check it.
Instead, I place the bundle in a drawer, hand him his keys and escort him out into the summer sunshine.
His 1975 Chevrolet Malibu, still in its original midnight blue metallic paint, sits outside, driver’s door open, patiently waiting for its owner.
The paintwork and chrome gleam in the summer sun, and that’s because Grant insisted when we first started that every customer’s vehicle that came in would get a complementary mini-valet.
Old Mr. Hatfield’s car hardly needed it though.
He keeps the damned thing in tip-top condition, rarely driving it further than the next town to go play cards with his cousin once a week.
Why, I doubt he does more than eight thousand miles in it in a whole year.
I give the departing Malibu a final, friendly wave goodbye, then, as the dust settles on the asphalt, I head back into the workshop to help Abe fit a new silencer on the local doctor’s Grand Cherokee.
It shouldn’t really have needed one so soon, but Abe reckons these newer Jeeps don’t have the longevity of the older models.
The part came in yesterday, so if we can get it fitted today, Doctor Langford can be back up and running with it as soon as tonight.
We work together in companionable silence, the two of us standing close together in the inspection pit underneath the Grand Cherokee, with the vehicle itself held up by our compressed air hydraulic car lift.
It was easily the most expensive item on our purchase list when we came here three years ago and started kitting out the workshop, but it was something Abe had insisted on us having, and I have to admit he was right.
Having the ability to raise and lower vehicles instantly at the press of a button is an absolute Godsend at times.
Abe holds the new exhaust system in place, whilst I quickly drive in enough bolts to hold it.
Then we reconnect the pipes both front and back, and finally tighten up the bolts and check the holding brackets to ensure everything will stay in place for the next however-many thousands of miles the vehicle will be driven.
The work done, we jump out of the inspection pit, and Abe presses the ‘Down’ button to release the car back down to earth.
Another job finished, one more satisfied customer, and another meal or two honestly earned.
Being a mechanic ain’t exactly glamorous, but I don’t mind it.
No, truth be told, I’d as much as do this job as pretty much any work you care to mention, with the possible exception of ‘beauty contest judge’, or ‘model agency scout’, but to be honest even those jobs probably have their dull side. I mean… think of all the admin.
Funny thing is… I worked for maybe an hour down in the inspection pit, with Abe no further away from me than a lover.
Yet we exchanged perhaps no more than three or four words apiece.
That’s a new record, even for Abe. Ah well…
there’s no accounting for folks. And Abe…
well Abe’s a good guy. Silent or not, I’d rather have Abe by my side when the shit hits the you-know-what than any other person on Earth.
Truthfully, not a day goes by when I don’t remember what he did.
When I don’t think about just how much Grant and I owe him.
Some debts… well, some debts can never be fully repaid.
It’s after dinner, and it’s a Friday night. No one’s particularly excited by the idea of going into town with me for a drink, so if they won’t do that, I suggest we stay at home and drink, and play games instead.
Grant groans, but Maria pricks up her ears.
“I’d love to play,” she says. “Papa and I used to play games all the time when I was a girl. Connect Four, Checkers, Trouble, Guess Who, Mouse Trap… various card games of course. And we had an ancient Nintendo 64 that we used to play sometimes. Mario Kart, Mario Tennis, and there was this winter sports game where we used to have to do snowboarding tricks.”
Old Sandro smiles. “I’m in,” he says. “So long as you guys don’t mind losing to the better man, of course.”
“Oof, that’s fighting talk, old timer,” I laugh.
“Abe? Grant?”
“I guess,” Abe shrugs noncommittally.
“Sure, why not?” says Grant. “But what?”
“What ‘what’?”
“I mean…” Grant adjusts his voice, enunciating each word slowly and clearly, as if for the hard of thinking. “What are we going to play, dummy?”
I shrug. “Whatever you like.”
“Because,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “I don’t care what anyone says, but I am not going to play Game of Life. And you always cheat at Monopoly.”
“I so do not!” I act genuinely shocked, as if I cannot understand how he could say such a thing.
“You so do,” confirms Abe from the far side of the room, where he’s fetching more beer from the fridge for everyone.
“What about Uno?” I suggest.
“Alright.”
“Okay.”
To general nods and expressions of assent, I open the cupboard where we keep the games and hunt around.
“Here we go.” I spot the box of Uno cards and reach for it. “Best play at the table.”
We all sit down at the kitchen table, freshly opened beers at our side. Sandro is to my immediate right, Maria to my left. Perfect. This will be like shooting fish in a barrel.
I hand the cards to Maria.
“Here you are. You can shuffle and deal.”
“Sure, no problem.” She takes the cards out of the box, gives them a pretty good riffle shuffle—hmm…
I hadn’t expected her to know how to do that—and expertly deals seven cards out to each of us, the cards landing rapidly in neat little piles in front of us, before she places the remaining cards face down on the table.
Seems she’s played cards before. I might have to watch her.
“Player to the left of the dealer goes first.” I announce confidently. Grant rolls his eyes.
“I knew there was a reason why you gave the deck to Maria.”
“Not at all. I was just being a gentleman.”
“Yeah, right.”
Truth is, there’s method in my kindness.
Grant and Abe both know every dirty little trick I possess when it comes to card games, so naturally I ain’t sitting next to either of them.
Instead, I’ve strategically positioned myself between Maria and Sandro, who I’m assuming are the weakest players at the table by a comfortable margin.
Meaning I should be able to manipulate things a little, get rid of my high cards fast, and quietly murder the old man before he even realizes he’s under attack.
At least, that’s the plan.
Unfortunately for me, things begin going wrong almost immediately.
Maria goes first and instantly drops a Draw Two on me.
“Oh, come on,” I protest, scooping up the extra cards. “What did I ever do to you?”
She gives me an innocent smile over the top of her cards. “Sorry. I thought you’d want more cards.”
Grant snorts into his beer.
Two turns later, with play now moving in the opposite direction, Sandro calmly changes the color just before I can get rid of half my hand.
“You little traitor,” I accuse him.
“Youth must be punished,” he says serenely, then winks at no one in particular.
Abe’s shoulders start shaking suspiciously from across the table.
“What’s so funny, big man?” I ask him.
“Nothing,” he says, which in Abe-language means absolutely something.
Five minutes later I realize two things.
Firstly, Maria is far more competitive than she initially appears.
And secondly, Alessandro Contarini has apparently spent the last seventy years psychologically destroying people over card tables.
The pair of them work together with terrifying natural instinct, trapping me repeatedly with Draw Fours, Reverses, and Skips whilst somehow leaving each other mysteriously untouched.
“This is collusion,” I complain as Maria places another Skip card directly on top of my carefully planned move.
“No,” says Maria sweetly. “This is consequences.”
Grant outright laughs at that, the bastard.
Meanwhile Abe, who I’d assumed wasn’t paying attention to the game at all, quietly murmurs:
“Uno.”
We all turn.
The sneaky asshole has one card left.
A moment or two later, the game is over. Abe is the winner. Both Sandro and Maria are left with only three cards each. Beginner’s luck, I guess. Grant has five. I seem to have ended up with about half the pack.
“Let’s play something else,” I suggest.