I wonder if she’s still mad at me.
“Clem?You still there?”Wally suddenly hollers.
I jerk the phone away from my ear.“Yeah, still right here, Wally.No need to yell.”
Wally Shirk owns a junkyard just outside Kettle Falls, along Route 395.It’s about a forty-five-minute drive from here, but he’s got the best inventory of older model vehicles sitting in his yard, and I’ve found parts for Brant Colter’s 1979 Ford Bronco there before.
Wally is also old as dirt and deaf as a doorpost, but refuses to wear a hearing aid.
“My bad,” he returns with only fractionally less volume.“Well, I’ve got a 1978 Bronco sitting in the back lot under a tarp.Grille looks to be in decent condition, no obvious rust but needs a little polishing.I’ll get the boy to take it off and buff it up, and you can have it for three seventy-five.”
The “boy” he refers to is his son Everett, and he’s probably well in his fifties.
I bark out a laugh.“Highway robbery, Wally.I can get a near new one for that price online.I’ll tell you what; I’ll pay you seventy-five, and I’ll come take it off myself.”
I hear him clear his throat and fire off a wad of phlegm.His way of telling me my offer is an insult.
“Two fifty,” he comes back with.
“One twenty-five, and I’m taking the passenger side mirror too.”
I noticed the one on Brant’s vehicle showed a few rust spots as well.Our former sheriff takes good care of his beloved Bronco.He likes to keep it in tiptop shape, but age as well as the regular wear and tear of use inevitably leaves its marks.
“You’re a pain in my arse, Tanek,” he grumbles.
The old man is full of it.He loves the bartering.
“One twenty-five, Wally,” I state firmly.“I’ll swing by sometime this week.”
“Fine,” he grudgingly concedes.
“Hey, Wally,” I quickly say before he hangs up.“You wouldn’t happen to have any older model Chevy C/Ks floating around, would you?”
“I believe there’s one or two.They’d probably be in the old section.Why?You need parts?”
“Nah, I know someone who might be interested.I’ll have a look when I come by.”
“Suit yourself,” he mutters before ending the call.
I’m not sure what prompted me to ask, but now I’m thinking of taking Remi when I head out there.Nothing like some hands-on experience, if he’s really interested in fixing up an old vehicle.The kid could learn a thing or two, and if Wally does have a Chevy C/K in his yard, it might turn out to be a good motivator for him.
I’m about to shoot him a text—I took down Remi’s cell phone number on Saturday—but think better of it.Before I get the kid all excited, I should probably run it by his mother.
Got a minute to talk?
“Boss…I’mgonna need a hand lifting the engine block.”
I slide the phone in my back pocket and turn to join Kyle, who is working on a Subaru Forester that needs valve replacements on the cylinder heads.The only way to access those is to pull out the vehicle’s engine.
The heavy lifting is done by an engine hoist, but it takes two people for safety.One to operate the hoist, and the other to carefully guide the engine onto the blocks.
Kyle is already attaching one of the hoist chains and I grab the other one, fastening it in place, when my phone vibrates in my back pocket.
“Hang on,” I tell Kyle, checking the incoming message.
A minute.
I can feelthe chill in her two-word response.Curt and to the point, making it clear she’s busy and doesn’t particularly welcome the interruption.
