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Tom smooths his thinning white hair and shifts back in his seat. He pats the pocket of his red flannel shirt, no doubt searching for a pack of Marlboros and a lighter even though the doctor told him to quit over a year ago. His kind light blue eyes dart as his mind sorts through the memory and the present. Today is a good day as his face brightens with the rare retained knowledge. “You told me that. They’re going to give you a job when you graduate. ”
“Yes, sir. ” My gut untwists with his words. I dread the day he does forget.
The old man and Mack have been good to me. A friend of theirs fostered me for a while. Then the one good family I had left town, the system moved me to Shirley and Dale’s and these two old guys got it in their head to hire me at the raw age of thirteen.
“Good,” Tom says to himself and then stares at Mack. “Isn’t that good. ”
A thirty-years-served retired vet, Mack tips his Marine Corps baseball cap once in my direction. “Don’t fuck it up. ”
“Not planning on it. ”
“Good. ” Mack reiterates Tom’s sentiments. “That job will take you
somewhere. ”
I glance around the sparse garage. “No work?”
Mack shakes his head. Tom may own the shop, but Mack manages it. Like Tom, Mack has no need to work. He prefers the garage over his empty apartment. “I finished the Chevelle. ”
“Do you mind if I work on some side business during the day? Assuming there’s nothing coming in?” I doubt Rachel will be able to stay late.
Since I was fourteen, I’ve done side work for friends. They find the parts; I do the manual labor in exchange for a fee, parts to supe up my own Mustang, or a debt they owe me to be paid later. The side work typically waits until the garage is officially closed at night, but with business being slow maybe they’ll give on the timing.
Mack sips the whiskey from the bottle. “No problem. What are you working on?”
Anything I can scavenge in order to make extra money. “My car. ” I clear my throat. “And a 2005 Mustang GT. ”
A ghost of a smile plays on Mack’s lips, creating deep crevices around his mouth. “Finally save enough to supe your car?”
No. “Calling in favors. ”
More like I’m calling in debts owed to me. Debts I saved for times when I would need help—like bail. Some of those people will pay in cash. Others who don’t have a cash flow can supply parts. I hate that I’m using my rainy-day fund, but owing Eric could be worse than jail.
“And I’m assuming that’s why I’m here?” asks Abby from behind me.
Mack, Tom and I turn our heads. She nods at me, acknowledges Tom, and like always, ignores Mack. Mack finishes the whiskey, throws the empty bottle into the trash and leaves the office. He’ll be MIA for the rest of the day. Abby’s never told me why the two stare at each other from opposite sides of a battlefield, and because I respect her, I never ask.
Tom pats his pocket again, still searching for his cigarettes. “Keep your politics out of my garage, Miss Abby. ”
Politics as in her drugs. Tom’s the only person I’ve seen Abby cave to. “I always do. ”
“Good. ” By the way Tom’s eyes glaze over I can tell we’ve lost him to a memory.
I head to the other side of the garage and Abby follows.
“Everyone knows about the deal you made with Eric,” she says. “He means business, Isaiah, and he wants your head and Fuzzy Bunny’s on a platter. Eric’s threatened to retaliate against anyone who helps you raise the money. ”
Shit. That complicates things. I had hoped to raise half of the five thousand from collecting on debts. Now I’ll have to rely solely on the parts. “I’ll respect whatever decision you make as long as you make it now. What side are you playing, Abby? Are you my friend in this or my enemy?”
“I can’t help,” she says.
I place my hands on the tool bench and lean into it. Not what I wished to hear. “Abby. . . ”
“I can’t give you money. ” Her eyes flash to mine. “What I make, I need. Eric may own some of the streets, but he doesn’t own me. I’ll help in what ways I can, but I still have to watch my own back. ”
Because nobody else will. She doesn’t have to say that part. Because life is like that for me, too. I straighten. It’s her response and I have to accept it. “I have favors to call in, and I’d like some help doing it. ”
“I’m game. ” With a tilt of her chin, she falls into business mode. I hate that deadpan look, but that expression is the reason I’m asking for her help. The amount of work to be accomplished would normally take weeks. I don’t have weeks. I’m allowing days on a job that needed to be done last night.
