Page 83 of Intrepid

Flicking my cigarette off into the copse of bushes along the street, I rounded the corner to a dilapidated garage, where an older man stood with his back to me beneath a car propped up onto a lift. As I neared, I noticed the rag dangling from his hand, coated in black grease.

“Excuse me,” I called out, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

The man turned, and for one brief moment, so did my stomach. Ten years had quadrupled the wrinkles on his face, giving him a rough, almost petrified appearance, with indentations, and a prominent Adams apple.

“Excuse me.” I hiked a thumb over my shoulder and glanced backward in a pathetic attempt to feign an innocent encounter. Odd thing, knowing a man’s fate. In some ways, it made me want to laugh hysterically at his ignorance. “My car …. It broke down a mile, or so, up the street.”

“Huh. Ain’t you lucky to be so close to a garage.”

“Yeah. I was relieved to see your sign.”

His tongue slid across his teeth, as he stuffed the greasy rag into the pocket of his uniform. “Sorry. We’re closed.” He twisted back toward the car, without so much as a glance back.

“I’ve got cash. I can pay you for your help.”

With a snort, he shook his head and turned around. “You fuckin’ suburban snobs think you can buy—”

“Five hundred. Cash.”

“Five hundred.” The air of disbelief in his voice told me he was the kind of man who required proof, so I tugged out the folded stack of hundreds I’d stuffed in my pocket earlier in the night, and held it up for him to see.

He hocked a gob a spit off to the side and brushed a thumb across his nose. “Alright. Five hundred, plus whatever repairs it needs.”

“Deal. I just need to get out of this shitty neighborhood, man. It’s making my skin crawl.”

I was pretty sure he muttered something like fuckin’ yuppy, before waving me over to the beat-up wrecker parked in the side lot. He climbed inside, hand on the key in the ignition, and the moment I hopped in beside him, he fired it up. For one brief moment, my nerves got the best of me, when he stared at me, resting his arm against the steering wheel.

I stole a quiet glimpse of him, and his eyebrows raised. “You gonna tell me where to go, or we gonna sit in this truck all night?”

“Right. Um. Its just up East Grand. I pulled off into the empty lot at the corner there. Right next to the construction site.”

“Your car might not even still be there.” He snorted, shaking his head, and the truck rattled as he shifted it into gear. “I don’t know why the hell people from the city come down here late at night.”

“You … assume I don’t live here.”

He gave me a onceover, sweater to loafers, and back. “I’m pretty damn sure of that.”

“I had a company gathering at the Whitney. Took a few wrong turns, and the clutch seems to have gone out on my car.”

“How the hell did you …? Never mind. What’s the make?”

“Um. It’s an Audi, sir. R8 model.”

His sneer told me he disapproved. “Gonna be pricey. Under warranty?”

“I’m guessing not. It’s at about twenty thousand miles.”

“You’re lookin’ at about eight grand. Plus the five hundred, of course.”

“Money isn’t an issue. This city makes me nervous, after what happened to the one guy. You hear about that on the news? Guy who was thrown into a wood chipper?”

Slanting me a frown, he shook his head. “Nah, I don’t watch the news much. Too depressing. They, uh … say what his name was?”

“I don’t remember. It was a weird name. Anyway, it …” I faked a shiver and banded my arm over my stomach. “I have a really weak stomach. The thought of that just makes me sick.”

“Kids’re so goddamn sheltered these days.” He sneered again, shaking his head. “Hell, I saw my buddy’s hands get blown off by a firecracker when I was ten years old. Skin looked like a T-shirt dangling from his wrists.”

“That’s …. Oh, God, I think I’m gonna puke.” Feigning a gag, I slapped a hand over my mouth, grateful to hide the smile itching to escape at all the theatrics.