After the five minutes of passive listening, I interrupted the conversation to ask what kind of car he or she drove. Then (and only then) did I look at the person. It’s not the car that matters. It’s how he talked about the car. You could tell a lot by how a person talked about his car. Proud? Embarrassed? Ambivalent?
The answer to this question typically took anywhere between ten seconds and five minutes. By the end of this motoring monologue I’ve made up my mind.
Of course I loved my neighbor. My momma brought me up right. I certainly saw the wisdom in loving neighbors, and doing unto others, and being nice for the sake of being nice. I just preferred to love my neighbors from afar. I subscribed to long-distance relationships, where speaking and listening didn’t occur with any frequency.
I only had time for twenty-four people (tops) in my life, and I already had six siblings. Twenty-four people was an average of two birthdays a month. Ain’t nobody got time for more than two birthday celebrations a month. That’s a lot of cake, and I’m particular about my cake.
But back to Deveron Stokes and his transmission.
He was rubbing his neck, frowning at the bill. “The thing is, Cletus. I, uh, I don’t have the money at present to pay for all this work.”
I nodded, more thoughtfully than somberly this time. “Well now, Deveron, you have two options. You can tow the car out of the parking lot at your own expense until you do have the money. Or maybe we could work out some sort of agreement.”
I was not surprised. In fact, I was counting on him reneging on payment.
The bell over the door chimed as it opened, announcing the entrance of a new customer. I tilted to the side, looking around Deveron to see who’d entered.
It was Jethro, my oldest brother. Next to him was a tall woman I didn’t recognize. I made a point to avert my eyes before I could comprehend too much of her exterior.
“What kind of agreement?” Deveron asked, looking mighty shifty.
“Oh, nothing untoward, Mr. Stokes.” That was another falsehood.
Mr. Stokes was a presser at the dry cleaners and a waiter at The Front Porch, though he was paid under the table and wasn’t technically on staff—another way to avoid child support. Later, much later, I would explain that the first of my favors would require Mr. Stokes to place itching powder in Jackson James’s starched police uniform. Officer James had made the mistake of pulling me over last week for no reason when I was not in the mood to be pulled over.
A small number of plagues would befall the sheriff’s deputy over the coming weeks. I’d considered leprosy via an armadillo infestation, but decided against it. Maybe next time.
Mr. Stokes swallowed nervously. “Well . . . I guess. I mean, sure. Anything you need, Cletus.”
I grabbed a set of keys from behind the counter along with rental car paperwork, and placed them between us. “Good. I have a few favors in mind. We’ll work out the details later, but I’ll need them done before we start work on your truck. In the meantime, I’ll be happy to offer you one of the shop’s cars as a loaner at the rate of ten dollars a day, paid up front in cash.”
Deveron Stokes nodded nervously. He wasn’t a nice man, but he wasn’t devoid of brain cells either. He withdrew his wallet, handed me over a hundred-dollar bill—like I said, well stocked in whiskey, women, and cigarettes—and grabbed the key and the paperwork. He turned to one of the chairs scattered around the small sitting area and began scribbling on the sheet.
All of our loaner cars were 1990s Dodge Neon sedans. I kept a fleet of them standing by and in good working order for customers like Deveron Stokes. We had a lot of customers like Deveron Stokes.
Without a glance, I motioned my brother and the tall woman forward as I busied myself writing notes on Mr. Stokes’s repair quote. “Greetings, Jethro. What brings you to our humble shop of auto fixery?”
“Hey, Cletus. I wanted to introduce you to Shelly Sullivan. She’s new in town and looking for work as an auto mechanic.”
My frown was automatic—not because I was displeased, but because I was surprised. I barely controlled the urge to take a visual assessment of this woman mechanic. They were a few and far between breed.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Sullivan,” I said to the counter.
“Mr. Winston.”
My frowned deepened because her voice was . . . well, truth be told, it was odd. Direct, husky, like she wasn’t used to speaking and disliked doing so. She was from up north. I decided Boston. But her accent was light, near imperceptible.
I made a show of checking through the work order in front of me. “Tell me about yourself, Miss Sullivan.”
I didn’t need to glance up to know Jethro was grinning. He was used to my modus operandi, often found it amusing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d prepared Miss Sullivan for the process because she didn’t seem to be offended by my lack of eye contact.
“I’ve been welding since fourteen and fixing up cars since about the same time. Everything I know is self-taught, based on trial and error, or research. And I’m very good at it.”
I lifted my eyebrows, waiting for her to continue. She did not.
“Anything else?” I prompted.