by Tom Fowler
“I’ll find someone to take care of the mess,” Héctor said. “You can’t do this again, though. I know we’re in an ugly business, but we have to keep it out of our houses. Alice didn’t need to die.”
“I’m sorry, Héctor.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be better.” He paused. “And get the goddamn Porsche back.”
Rodolfo was about to answer when the line went dead.
4
Tyler put the finishing touches on dinner. He opened the oven door long enough to peek at the baked potatoes. The skins looked crisp thanks to the olive oil and salt Tyler applied before putting them in. He’d never been enthusiastic about cooking, but most of the guys he served with held similar views, so Tyler learned how to improve in the kitchen. When he lived alone, he didn’t put much effort in, but he enjoyed cooking for Lexi.
His daughter, of course, considered herself a foodie. It seemed like a requirement among her generation. She took frequent pictures of her meals—“for the ‘gram,” as Tyler soon learned—no matter who cooked them. With the help of Google, he learned on his own she meant Instagram. Asking her would have proven too embarrassing.
The steaks finished searing in the cast-iron skillet. Tyler turned the heat off and moved the pan to an unused burner. He put a slab of meat, a potato, and a few asparagus spears on Lexi’s plate and then texted her with the news. He considered sending her a photo, but she’d just take her own. Lexi’s footsteps raced down the stairs a moment later, and she bounded into the kitchen with a wide smile on her face. “It smells really good, Dad. Thanks for cooking.”
“Sure thing, kiddo. I’ll leave you to ruin your potato.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. Tyler only added butter, salt, and pepper to his spuds. By contrast, Lexi used them as a vessel for a slew of toppings. She added sour cream, bacon bits, diced green onions, and two different kinds of cheese. Tyler set all she needed on the counter. It took him far less time to prepare his, but he waited for her at the kitchen table. He cut into his steak when she sat across from him. A perfect medium.
Before she could eat, Lexi had to snap a picture of her dinner. She held the camera above her plate and took a few different photos. “I’ll pick the best one after I eat,” she said.
“Don’t let me get in the way of your social media popularity.”
“You should try it sometime.”
“I have enough friends,” Tyler said, “and I’ve actually met them.”
They both dug into their steaks. Lexi normally talked more at dinner, especially when she liked what Tyler cooked. He was about two-thirds through his New York Strip when he raised the subject with her. “You’re quiet.”
“Just enjoying dinner,” Lexi said. Her grin looked automatic. Tyler stared at her. “What?”
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
Lexi shook her head. “Can’t a girl enjoy a steak her father cooked?”
“Sure. It’s merely unusual when the girl hasn’t said a couple hundred words by the time her father takes his third bite.”
Lexi’s fork rattled off the plate as she set it down. She stared across the table at Tyler. He didn’t say anything. He learned years ago Lexi was far too headstrong to be coaxed. She’d talk on her own if given the space. It fit in with Tyler’s general philosophy on the merits of being silent. “Fine,” she said after a moment. “I heard from Mom today.”
Tyler stopped chewing for a few seconds. When he finished the bite, he said, “She called you?”
“No.” Lexi shook her head, and her auburn ponytail wagged back and forth. “Email.”
“From prison?”
“You making sure she’s still in?”
“What if I am?”
“Yes, Dad. From prison.”
“What did she want?”
“According to her email, to catch up,” Lexi said. “It seemed more like a guilt trip to me. ‘Why haven’t you come to see me?’” She affected a catty voice. “’I hope you’re in college.’ Who does she think she is? Like you’d let me just skip out on it?”
“She probably didn’t want me to lead you toward the military,” Tyler said. “If she knew you better of course, she’d realize there’s nothing to worry about there.”
Lexi speared a piece of steak and chewed it angrily. “It’s been months since she reached out. Why now?”
“I gave up trying to figure out why your mother does anything years ago.”
“She blamed you for leaving us for a long time.”
“I know,” Tyler said. “She’s never enjoyed a close relationship with the facts.”
“What should I do?” Lexi asked.
“You’re an adult. Make your own decision.”
“You won’t be mad if I see her?”
“Of course not,” Tyler said. “I know she’s a . . . difficult person, and it’s not easy to see her now. She’s still your mother. I’d never be mad at you for wanting to maintain a relationship with her.”
Lexi nodded slowly. Tyler figured she knew his answer already and simply wanted the reassurance of him saying it out loud. He was happy to provide it. The timing struck him as unusual, though. Lexi was wise to wonder why now. Rachel had been in jail over a year and still had quite a while to go on her sentence. Lexi could be married with kids of her own by the time her mother breathed outside air again. What did she want?
Whatever it was, Tyler trusted his daughter to see through it. She’d wised up a lot where her mom was concerned even before the woman went to jail. This would be yet another lesson.
Smitty arrived at his shop not long after sunrise. It was a Sunday, so he wanted to get in early and be done in time to drive home and catch most of the Ravens game. He unlocked the door, turned the alarm off, and set a half-pot of coffee to brew. All three bays were full. He tried to keep as few cars outside as possible, both to minimize exposure to the elements and chances for theft.
An old Mustang, an Oldsmobile Starfire, and the Boxster occupied the slots. Two boring early-‘eighties commuter cars sat in the lot. No one would want to steal one of them. Smitty was surprised the owners cared enough to keep the jalopies on the road. The fuel-sipping Chevette would not mark a high point in the history of Chevrolet.
Business had picked up over the last few months, which was good. Smitty considered himself a mechanic first and foremost, so he liked putting cars on the lifts and getting his hands dirty. Both his son Jake and Tyler worked part-time and rarely together, so Smitty never lacked for something to do. It forced the management aspects of the job to the weekends, however. He always stayed after the shop’s limited Saturday hours, and trips in on Sunday became more frequent.
Still, he wouldn’t complain. It beat retirement, even though he wouldn’t even be eligible to collect all the benefits for a few more years. Jake didn’t share Smitty’s passion for cars, but the two fared well together, and it provided an easy excuse to see his son. Tyler made a big difference since Smitty hired him several months ago. In addition to rescuing Jake from some rogue soldiers he’d served with, the man possessed a strong work ethic. Even during his stint on light duty, Tyler did more than Smitty thought he would.
One of the things Tyler insisted on was a better security system. The shop took a beating from the men looking for Jake, and Smitty agreed he didn’t want to see a repeat of it. Cameras now covered the full exterior of the building, its parking lot, and the street running alongside it. A fancy new monitor sat on Smitty’s desk, and he could check any of the feeds whenever he wanted. Video footage got sent to the cloud for backup. It sounded like a good thing. Tyler nodded like he understood the term, so Smitty had followed suit. Between the pair of them, maybe they could figure it out one day.
Armed with a fresh cup of steaming java, he dove into some paperwork. The parade of bills—both inbound and outbound—never stopped. One of these years, he would need to hire a part-time person to cover the accounts payable and receivable. Neither Jake nor Tyler had a head for this stuff, so Smitty kept d
oing it. He never seemed to get any better at it, but no one from the state told him to close his doors, so he must have done all right.
A couple hours—and a second cup of coffee—into his Sunday work, a car drove onto the lot. Smitty changed the camera to one which would show it better. His old system displayed grainy images. This new one clearly showed a black Subaru WRX with gold aftermarket wheels and an obnoxious spoiler the manufacturer would never install. Smitty used the zoom—another new feature—to see two Latino men sitting in the front seats.
The sedan idled but sat in place. The men made no move to get out. Were they with the woman who dropped off the Porsche? Did they expect anyone to be working on Sunday? Maybe they were just casing the place. Smitty opened his desk drawer and took out the gun Tyler gave him. The man’s hyper-vigilance rubbed off. Smitty held the pistol in his lap as he watched the monitor. All remained quiet except for the WRX’s idle.
Five minutes passed. Ten. The two men inside chatted with one another, but the system didn’t record audio. If they spoke Spanish, Smitty wouldn’t have understood much, anyway. Fifteen minutes. The semiautomatic felt heavy resting on Smitty’s legs. Then, the WRX’s engine barked, and the car sped away. He kept watching the monitor, but it never returned.
When the Subaru had been gone a half-hour, Smitty finally put the gun away.
Héctor Espinoza opened his door and let Rodolfo enter. The younger man barged in and plopped down in a living room chair. Héctor closed the door, sighed, and followed his cousin. “Something wrong? Did the cleaner not do a good job?”
“What? No . . . it’s fine.”
Not for the first time, Héctor considered the wisdom of bringing Rodolfo into the cartel activities. Setting him up as the community landscaper proved to be the easy part. Rodolfo was still only twenty-two, and he acted his age far too often for Héctor’s tastes—and for his continued business interests. “Something is bothering you.” Héctor sat on the plush sofa opposite his impetuous relative.
“You told me to get the Porsche back,” Rodolfo said.
It was Sunday. Most repair shops would be closed. Retrieving a car under the circumstances would be loud and messy. Too many missteps, and Mexico would pull the plug on their nascent operations in the area. The business of the cartel came first. “I did,” he said after a couple calming breaths. “Tell me you didn’t make a scene.”
Rodolfo had the gall to look offended. “I asked a couple guys to check the place out. The Boxster was inside, and someone was there.”
“They were open?”
“I don’t think so. It sounded like the owner catching up on some stuff. I heard he stayed behind a desk the whole time.”
“The men drove away?” Héctor asked.
“Yeah.” Rodolfo nodded.
Héctor folded his hands in his lap. “Had someone not been in the shop, what would have happened?”
“I don’t know,” Rodolfo said. “I probably would’ve told the guys to get the car back.”
“You know they work for me, right?” Héctor heard the edge in his own voice, and Rodolfo’s recoil in the chair meant he did, too. “These men you sent aren’t yours to command.”
“I know.” Rodolfo fidgeted under Héctor’s glare. “I asked them to do me a favor.”
“And it would have extended to breaking into a business and stealing a car.”
“It’s my car!”
“No one walking or driving by would think so.” Héctor slapped the couch cushion. “Alice shouldn’t have taken it to a shop we don’t know. Fine. I don’t think anything got left behind from its transit here. Even so, a mechanic doesn’t have drug-sniffing dogs.” He paused, and Rodolfo wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You know who does?”
“The cops,” his cousin said in a small voice.
“Yes. Do you know who people would call if they saw two men breaking into the place?”
“The cops.”
“Precisely,” Héctor said. “Your name is on the registration, yes?” Rodolfo nodded glumly. “Let’s suppose some residue remained . . . enough for the dogs to pick it up. Their next stop is your house. Our entire operation is threatened.”
“It didn’t happen,” Héctor said. “They left.”
“You should thank Jesus in your prayers tonight.”
Rodolfo spent a moment staring at the floor before he spoke. “What are we going to do about the Porsche?”
“Tomorrow is Monday,” Héctor said. “The shop will probably be open. The car’s in your name. Go get it . . . the right way.”
“What if they don’t want to give it back?”
“They will.” A scowl darkened Rodolfo’s youthful features. “Relax, cousin. It’s your vehicle. They have to give it back to you.”
“They’d better,” Rodolfo said.
Héctor let his comment hang in the air unanswered. If Rodolfo caused too much of a problem, Héctor would need to deal with him. The business of the cartel came first.
5
Tyler arrived at the shop shortly after eight on Monday morning. Smitty was already there—and probably had been for hours—talking to a short, paunchy customer with curly hair. Tyler listened as he poured a cup of coffee. The man drove a late-‘eighties Daytona and needed an oil change and tune-up. Smitty tried to explain tune-ups weren’t really things anymore, and they agreed on a set of services to be performed. Tyler figured he would be stuck with them. The boss didn’t like to work on anything made after 1980 if he could help it.
When the customer left, Smitty asked Tyler, “Ever work on a Daytona?”
Tyler shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve seen one on the road in fifteen years.”
Smitty pointed at the car. “Technically, you still haven’t. It’s in the parking lot.”
Tyler grinned in spite of the lame joke. “So it is. How are the parts for the Boxster coming along?”
“Don’t want to disappoint your new girlfriend?”
“I like to keep them around for a month or so before I let them down,” Tyler said.
“We’re supposed to hear something today.” Smitty shrugged. “Stuff isn’t as hard to come by as I thought it would be. Has to travel farther to get here is all.”
“Den ganzen weg von Deutschland?”
“What?” Smitty frowned.
“All the way from Germany?” Tyler asked in English. “I was stationed there for a while. It helps to be able to do more than order sausage and ask for the bathroom.”
“No. Some place out west. Local suppliers were sold out.” He pointed to the middle bay. “Before you work on your ladyfriend’s car, how about a brake job on the Starfire?”
“Sure.” Tyler admired the car as he approached it. It featured the redesigned styling of the 1965 models. The body was a beautiful light blue topped by a white convertible roof. The coupe version of the Starfire bore a passing resemblance to Tyler’s own 442. They both shared the 425 cubic inch Rocket V8. Tyler raised the car on the lift and got busy.
When he’d finished, he walked out of the bays and back into the front part of the shop. Smitty had his head under the hood of an old Mustang, so Tyler checked the computer. The order of Porsche parts showed a potential delivery date three days out. Nothing displayed as back ordered or out of stock. Alice's Boxster needed some work, and it would get it all. She’d be thrilled, and Tyler would be glad to see it. Enthusiasts should be encouraged. He looked at her phone number on the estimate and called from the landline.
Straight to voicemail.
Tyler frowned and hung up without leaving a message. He backed the Starfire out and brought the Daytona into the bays. Then, he tried Alice again. Same result. He listened to her entire voicemail greeting and left a message. “Hi, this is Tyler from Smitty and Son. We’re able to get all the parts for your Boxster. They’ll take three days to get here, so there’s a chance we could be finished Friday or Saturday. Smitty or I will keep you in the loop. Thanks . . . bye.”
He set the receiver back in the cradle.
Maybe Alice was busy, or perhaps she didn’t answer calls from numbers she didn’t know. Tyler had operated this way since he first got a cell phone. Something nagged at him. Alice mentioned her boyfriend bought the car but never seemed happy about the fellow in any other context. She only smiled when talking about cars—or driving them in the case of the 442.
Tyler realized he couldn’t worry about every young woman within a few years of his daughter’s age—no matter how much they reminded him of women he served with. He got back on the job before Smitty had a chance to walk inside and tell him to stop loitering behind the counter.
A couple hours later, Tyler watched a black Subaru WRX pull into the lot. The bright gold rims and crazy aftermarket wing on the back caught his eye. At least the car had a turbocharged engine. Modifying it to make more power—and perhaps justify the monstrosity over the trunk—was easy. Tyler never understood why people put enormous spoilers on vehicles like Honda Civic sedans. A fine car, but definitely not a racer without an awful lot of work.
Two men got out. The driver was a Latino man of average height and build. The passenger unfolded himself to climb from his side. The man must have stood at least six-seven and weighed close to 300 pounds. Even from afar, the hulk gave off a menacing vibe. Tyler’s hand confirmed the presence of the shotgun stashed under the counter. Smitty emerged from the shop. “Same car was here yesterday,” he said.
“Was Andre the Giant inside?”
“Hard to tell, but I doubt it.” Smitty paused. “I think this is about the Boxster. I don’t like it.”
“Me, either,” Tyler said as the smaller man opened the door. He looked down his nose at Tyler and Smitty. The guy’s mouth probably couldn’t write a check the massive fellow trailing him couldn’t cash.
“You have my car,” he said in a lightly-accented voice. This painted him as the boyfriend Alice didn’t seem thrilled about. He put his hands on the counter and flashed a smug grin. Overhead lights glinted off the two gold chains around his neck. The extra-large enforcer lingered a couple steps back, crossing his massive arms. Tyler had chopped down smaller trees.
