by Tom Fowler
“I’m sure we can find what it needs,” Tyler added. “You should know foreign cars can be expensive to maintain, though.”
“I understand,” Alice said.
“We’ll definitely need to replace the exhaust. Should be pretty easy to get. How’s she run?”
“Good. Sounds normal.”
Tyler nodded. “All right. What about the clutch?”
“Feels a little . . .” Alice moved her hand in a so-so motion. “. . . off. Not bad. I can drive it fine, but the car probably needs a new one. Do you know about the IMS bearing?” Tyler shook his head. “It’s an issue on Porsches from this period. I don’t know if it’s been replaced or not. They recommend doing it along with the clutch. Can you see?”
“We’ll figure it out,” Tyler said. Smitty frowned but didn’t say anything. “We’ll need to look her over and see what we can do. If you want to bring it back, it’s fine.”
“It’s all right,” Alice said. “I can get a ride home.” She and the boss adjourned to the office. Tyler followed a moment later after walking around the Boxster’s underside one more time. Smitty signed an estimate, tore off the bottom copy, and handed it to the young woman, who took it with a warm smile. “Thank you.”
She walked back out through the door. “I hope we can get the parts and do all the work,” Smitty said as Tyler strode up beside him. ”I’d hate to disappoint your new girlfriend.”
Tyler rolled his eyes. “We don’t get a lot of enthusiasts who happen to be women in here.”
“Even fewer who look like her.”
“True,” Tyler said.
“You more in love with her or the car?”
Tyler grinned. “The car.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going to get some lunch. Want anything?”
The owner shook his head. “I’ll look this thing over while you’re gone. If we can get the parts and do the work, this is your project.”
“Only fair,” Tyler said. “I don’t want another man working on my new girlfriend’s car.”
Tyler gave his hands a thorough washing and changed his shirt before venturing out. The shop stood a short distance across the county line from the city of Baltimore, and restaurant options were plentiful in both directions. Tyler went into the city last time, so today, he made a right out of the parking lot. An Asian fusion place greeted him at the top of the hill, but he kept going and turned into the McDonald’s lot, parked the 442, and walked inside.
Despite arriving an hour after the lunch rush commonly ended, Tyler found the place moderately crowded. He ordered his meal, picked it up, and surveyed the tables. There were entrance doors on either side of the restaurant. A kids’ playhouse—currently empty—took up the rear. He sat at a spot around the middle which allowed him to keep both doors in view and unwrapped the first of his two Quarter Pounders before taking a large bite.
Tyler appreciated McDonald’s. It was consistent. He’d been to many in this country and several overseas. The meals were always about the same in terms of quality. Maybe they wouldn’t pack a display case with awards, but the food was solid and predictable. He liked things he could rely on. A couple bites later, the door on Tyler’s left swung open.
Alice Simard walked in. She glanced to her right, saw Tyler, and smiled. So did he. Alice ordered her meal and carried a tray toward the table. “Mister Tyler. Do you mind if I join you?”
Tyler gestured toward the available chair. “Help yourself.”
“Thank you.” She slid onto the seat. Her tray held a grilled chicken sandwich, a smaller box of fries than Tyler got, and a cup of what looked like iced tea—a much healthier lunch. “I’m glad you’ll be able to work on my car.”
“As long as we can get the parts,” Tyler said.
“You seem more eager to work on my car than your boss is.”
“You remind me of someone I knew in the army. She was a young enlisted soldier who was big into cars. Even got to drive a few Porsches when we were both in Germany.”
“Did you work with her?” Alice said.
Tyler waffled his hand. “Sort of. She took a class I did on Jeep repairs. Wanted to apply what she learned to her own cars someday.”
“Did she?”
“I don’t know,” Tyler said. “We lost touch. It was years before social media.” He didn’t tell Alice the truth. PFC Kate O’Shea died from a roadside IED before she got the chance to use anything Tyler taught her. He lapsed into silence at the memory.
She inclined her head over Tyler’s shoulder. “Do you drive the green car out there?”
Tyler nodded. “Loud and American. Kind of like me.”
Alice grinned. She looked very pretty when she was happy. “What do you call them? Muscle cars?”
“Yes. There are cars today with more power, but the driving experience isn’t the same.”
“It is how I feel about my car, too.” She took a delicate bite of her sandwich. “What year is yours?”
“‘Seventy-two,” Tyler said. “It’s almost as old as I am.”
“You wear your years as well as the car.”
“Thanks.” Tyler knew the 442 looked better than he did, but he wouldn’t turn down the compliment.
“Mine is the second year Porsche made the car. I could have gotten a later model, but I liked the idea of driving one of the early ones . . . before they made some improvements.”
Tyler polished off the remainder of his first burger. “Sounds like you wanted it specifically.”
“I wanted a good first-generation Boxster. They came out with the S a few years later, but they were pricier. I guess it costs more for the extra power.”
“Always does,” Tyler said.
“My boyfriend bought the car,” Alice said. “He tried to tell me it was for him, but I knew he got it for me.”
“Mighty nice of him.”
“It was.” Tyler noticed she didn’t smile. “He’s an immigrant, too . . . from Mexico. We both came to the US around the same time. We have a shared experience.”
Tyler thought they probably walked very different roads as immigrants, but he didn’t want to ruin Alice’s mood. “You mentioned getting a ride home from here. You live far away?”
“Not too far. Near Bel Air.”
He knew the area. Bel Air served as the county seat of Harford County, the next one north in Maryland. It extended all the way to Pennsylvania at its northern tip. Many cities were pockets of strip malls and expensive houses nestled amid acres of farmland. Depending on where exactly Alice lived, she could have driven at least a half-hour to get here. “I’m sure there must have been a closer shop. Isn’t there some kind of German specialty place up there?”
She nodded. “In Aberdeen. My boyfriend has a mechanic he uses a few miles from here. I don’t think he does great work, though, so I looked for a new place. Your boss’s shop is well reviewed.”
It seemed a little odd. Aberdeen was closer to Bel Air than Overlea. It had been years since Tyler was on the proving ground up there, but he remembered it being a pretty straight shot. A dedicated German repair center would be a much more logical place to take a twenty-four-year-old Porsche than a general shop like Smitty’s. “Are you all right, Mister Tyler?”
“Fine.” He offered a small, automatic grin to cover his usual skeptical nature. “Have you always been into cars?”
Now, Alice beamed. “Since I was a girl in Quebec. My father had a Mustang . . . one of the ‘eighties models. I could drive a clutch by the time I was eight. My dad was always under the hood trying to get more power out of it. I don’t know how to do much of that, but I’ve always enjoyed driving sporty autos.”
“Me, too,” Tyler said. They chatted about cars for a while longer. Tyler finished his lunch, and Alice eventually did, too. He offered her a lift back to the shop, but she said she’d wait at the McDonald’s for a ride. She didn’t seem happy about it. “You sure?”
Alice looked at her phone. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Sure, I’ll ride back with you.”<
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Tyler held the door for her as they walked outside. A feeling nagged at him. Something struck him as unusual about Alice bringing the Boxster here. Was she angry at her boyfriend? She never smiled when talking about him, even when mentioning he bought her a car. It seemed like an odd situation. Tyler held up his keys as they approached the 442. “Want to drive?”
A bright smile took over Alice's face. “Very much, yes.” Tyler climbed into the passenger’s seat. She backed the car out of the spot and pulled onto Belair Road with screeching tires and a determined grin.
3
Throttle open, the 442’s classic V8 growled. The car surged down Belair Road at speeds well above the suggestions on road signs. “I like this engine,” Alice said as she blew through a yellow light.
“Having eight cylinders helps,” Tyler said. “There’s no replacement for displacement.”
“You don’t like turbos?”
Tyler spread his hands. “I like the immediate shove, but it’s not predictable. Give me a big engine like this. Good linear power.”
Alice kept going past Smitty’s shop. Tyler made no effort to get her to turn in. Let her enjoy a turn behind the wheel of a true classic. Most people never got to pilot a car like this. Modern vehicles needed to comply with standards from many countries. Manufacturers downsized engines and bolted on turbochargers to meet fuel and emissions standards. Tyler liked some autos made today, but he found many of them boring. Too few cylinders, too little excitement, too much front-wheel drive.
“I only wish it didn’t have an automatic.” Alice glanced sidelong at Tyler as she spoke.
“Me, too,” he said. “Too much wear and tear on my legs to drive a stick every day. I get to take them for a spin when they turn up for service, though.”
“Will you test drive my Boxster once you finish it?”
“Sure.” He grinned. “I’ll even open her up an extra ten percent just for you.”
At a red light, Alice swung around and headed back toward Overlea. “Thanks for letting me drive.”
“No problem.” Tyler realized no one else had been behind the wheel since he bought the car and made it roadworthy again. It was a little over five years. He’d done all the work himself, so there was never a need for any mechanic to take the 442 for a spin. Smitty and Son appeared at the bottom of a hill. Alice piloted the large coupe onto the lot, stopping near the door. Tyler noticed Smitty staring at them and knew he’d get an earful about this little joyride later.
Tyler held the door for Alice as they walked into the shop. Smitty tapped on the keyboard. “I think we’ll be able to get all the parts we need,” he said. “They can’t all get here at once, though. You want to bring the car back in a day or two?”
“No need to do that,” Alice said. “You can keep it here. I have a ride coming.”
“All right. We’ll let you know when she’s ready.”
Alice grinned. “Thank you.” She waved at Tyler, and he swore the wattage on her smile increased. “I like your wheels, Mister Tyler.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I think we both have good taste.”
She nodded her concurrence and walked back out. “Jesus Christ,” Smitty said. “Tell me she’s not your new girlfriend, now.”
“Way too young for me. She just wanted to drive the 442. Can you blame her?”
“Guess not.” Smitty eyed the young woman. “With an ass like hers, I can’t blame you, either.”
“She’s a nice girl,” Tyler said.
“I’m sure she is. Being a knockout don’t hurt, though.”
“It never has.”
Another car pulled up. A Honda Civic at least a decade old. It sported a clearly modified exhaust—both by looks and sound—and a ridiculous wing on the back. Tinted windows prevented Tyler from seeing inside. Alice got into it, and it drove away.
The Civic drove away, and Alice walked up the flagstoned path to the front door. The grass and bushes as usual were well manicured, though the approach of winter meant they no longer needed regular maintenance. Still, living with a boyfriend who happened to be the community landscaper had its perks. Alice unlocked the door and entered the house.
It was the smallest in the posh community, but it also happened to be the nicest place she’d ever lived. The tiled foyer yielded to a living room covered in lush carpet. Rodolfo sat on the couch and stared at her. Alice smiled. He didn’t. She frowned as his glare remained in place. “What’s going on?”
“Where’s the Boxster?” he said.
“We knew it needed work when we bought it.”
“You mean when I bought it.”
Alice noticed four beer bottles on the coffee table. The TV was off. By now, Rodolfo usually held a Playstation controller. Today, it looked like he’d started early on the booze. “Fine . . . when you bought it. I took it somewhere to get it looked at.”
“You know we have a guy we can take the cars to,” he said.
“I don’t like him.” She crossed her arms. “He’s always staring at me. It’s creepy.”
“Where did you take it?”
“A place near Perry Hall. It’s well-reviewed.”
Rodolfo stood. As he stepped closer, Alice could see the effects of the alcohol in his eyes. He wasn’t slurring his words yet, but another bottle would guarantee it. She hated when he drank too much. The saving grace was he rarely did. Usually only when his cousin hassled him about business. He stopped a foot away, close enough for her to smell the beer on his breath. “You should have talked to me first.”
“It’s my car,” Alice said.
“I bought it for you,” Rodolfo said. He backhanded her across the face. Alice's head snapped to the side, and she stumbled but stayed on her feet. “Never forget. I bought it for you.”
She rubbed her stinging cheek. “How can I forget when you remind me all the time?” He’d only hit her once before, and in the aftermath, he swore he’d never do it again. Maybe she could calm him down by changing the subject. Something about the Boxster clearly had him worked up. “I got to see a really cool classic car today.” She stopped before mentioning her turn behind the wheel. It would do nothing to improve her boyfriend’s mood.
Rodolfo narrowed his eyes. “I don’t care. You know who I bought the Porsche from?” She shook her head. “My cousin put me onto him. He knew I was looking.”
So much for changing the subject. Alice blew out a breath and resigned herself to finishing the conversation. She wouldn’t tolerate him hitting her again, though. “And?”
“There was product in it.” When she didn’t say anything, he continued. “We got it all out first, as far as I know. This is why we take cars to the same place all the time. They don’t ask any questions if they find a baggy or a little residue.” He moved into her space again, and she took an involuntary step back. “I doubt your shop is so . . . discreet.”
“I’m sure they won’t find anything,” she said. If whoever unloaded it did his job right, that would be the case.
“They won’t. I’m going to get the car back. Tell me where you took it.”
“It’s a shop called Smitty’s. They’re very nice. I’m sure they don’t want any trouble.”
“You should’ve thought about it this morning.” Rodolfo took a stride forward and punched Alice in the stomach. All the breath left her body, and she folded in half. Her midsection blazed with pain. Before she could draw in more oxygen, Rodolfo decked her in the face, and she spiraled to the floor.
Mercifully, he walked out of the room. Alice would leave him. The hell with the car. No vehicle was worth this. Ever since Rodolfo got tangled up with his cousin in this damned community, he’d changed. He stopped being a landscaper and tried to moonlight as some kind of commando. It didn’t suit him, but he never wanted to hear it. Alice made it back to all fours when Rodolfo strode back into the room. She put a hand up. “Please.”
To her horror, he held an aluminum baseball bat. “You should have told me first,” he said as his arms we
nt back.
Rodolfo stared at the body of Alice. He’d beaten her into unconsciousness quickly, and then added a few more blows to be sure. Once the reality of the situation set in, her eyes looked confused and hurt. She didn’t understand. She never understood. Alice saw him as the sweet boy she fell in love with two years ago. Rodolfo was a man now. He’d still ply his trade as a landscaper, but the real money came in working for his cousin.
He needed to call Héctor and let him know what happened. The argument and beating hadn’t been too loud. Houses here were far enough apart for privacy. No one in the community would have heard it. They might wonder what happened to Alice. Everyone knew her. Especially the men. Rodolfo simmered at the thought. They all were eager to smile and wave at the pretty young redhead. In turn, she sported low-cut tops and smiled freely. Did the men at this repair shop agree to fix the car because of her looks?
No matter. He would get the Boxster back.
Rodolfo dialed his cousin, who picked up on the fourth ring. “I have a problem, Héctor.”
A long sigh was the only response for a while. Then, Héctor said, “Tell me what happened.”
“Alice. She’s dead.”
“What?”
“I had to,” Rodolfo said. “She took the Porsche to some shop to get it looked at.”
“You didn’t tell her it came with a full shipment of product in it?” Héctor asked. The edge to his voice could cut glass.
“I didn’t think I needed to. We just argued about it. She put the whole operation at risk.” Héctor remained silent. “I did what I had to.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“We need to clean this up,” Rodolfo said.
“We? Did I murder your girlfriend?”
“No, but—“
“Listen, cousin. You’re young. Brash. You do things without thinking. I’ve told you before it would hold you back, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” Rodolfo said in a small voice.
