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My hand tightened on his shoulder. I didn’t understand what he meant. We were pack, yeah, and—
“Boy, I don’t give two fucks what you do just as long as you don’t do it here. Get the hell out of here. This is no place for—”
“Spark plug electrode!” I blurted out.
Marty blinked at me. “What?”
I pushed Mark out of the way. He squawked angrily but crowded back into me, not letting any space between us. I didn’t have time for his werewolf idiocy. I had a point to make. “The check engine light. It’s because of the spark plug electrode. There’s motor oil built up around it.”
“What is he talking about?” the man in the suit asked. “Who is this kid?”
“Spark plug electrode,” Marty said slowly. “Is that right.”
I nodded furiously. “Yeah, yes. Yes, sir. It is.”
Marty took a step toward me, and for a moment I was sure Mark was going to wolf out. But before he could, Marty brushed by me and bent over the IROC-Z. “Flashlight,” he muttered, hand extended.
“Flashlight,” I said promptly, handing it over.
It took him a moment, but then, “Huh. Would you look at that. Must have missed it. Eyes aren’t what they used to be. Getting too old for this shit. Kid, come here.”
I went immediately. Mark did too.
“Excess oil,” Marty said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Could be an oil consumption problem.”
“Or something with the emissions system.”
“Or the ignition system.”
“Fuel injection. The hose, maybe.”
He shook his head. “Fuel isn’t leaking. No deterioration.”
“What are they talking about?” the man in the suit asked.
“I don’t know,” Mark said. “But Gordo knows a lot. More than anyone I know. He’s good and smart and smells like dirt and leaves and—”
I banged my head on the hood of the car. I yelped at the bright flash of pain. Mark was there in an instant, hands on my shoulders. “Would you stop telling him what I smell like?” I hissed at him through gritted teeth. “You sound so weird.”
Mark ignored me, putting his hands on my face and tilting my head down as he inspected what I assumed was probably going to be a gushing wound that would require stitches and would leave a horrific scar that—
“A little bump,” he murmured quietly. “You need to be more careful.”
I pulled away. “Well, you need to—”
“Easy fix,” Marty said. “Should only take a couple of hours, barring the need to order any parts. Go have a cup of coffee at the diner. A slice of pie.”
The man in the suit looked like he was going to argue, but nodded instead. He glanced curiously at Mark and me before he turned and walked out of the garage and into the sunshine.
Marty turned back to me. “Gordo, right?”
I nodded slowly.
He rubbed a hand through the gray stubble on his jaw. “Donald was a good man. Stubborn son of a bitch. Cheated at cards.” He shook his head. “Denied it, but we all knew. He talked about you.”
