Chapter6
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 iteye-talian.
“My father was,” Remi responds.
