by Noah Harris
The Porsche ran like a dream – of course a ratty Cavalier would run like a dream compared to his final stretch with the Corvette. The tow driver had been shocked to learn that the car had sat overnight in one of the worst neighborhoods in town, and was still in one piece. Charge had only been mildly surprised, but figured any inclined vandals had witnessed the plumes of smoke and had worried, as Charge had, that a fire-truck would be called.
“Still shocked – gotta say. I’ve seen rusted out pieces of crap get stripped down in this area. Though not as frequently as I have off parts of Scott Street,” the tow driver chatted amiably as he watched the crank hauling the Corvette onto the up-tilted flatbed.
“Yeah – that’s what my friend said.”
“All right Mr. Forrest, you want it hauled back to your residence?”
“Yeah – that would be great.” It was weird answering to Jon’s name, but as everyone from the operator to the service rep to now the tow operator had assumed, Charge had decided to go with it. “I’ll meet you there to open the gate.”
“Works for me.”
Charge hiked a couple of car lengths to the Porsche, slid onto the seat and had the engine purring. He checked the display of his phone and noted the time. Jon had called the house shortly after he had left to warn Charge that his Morgan should be delivered at noon and it shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes for the car to be unloaded into the garage. It was 10:45. He needed to get the wrecker to Jon’s house, the ‘Vette unloaded and shoved somewhere out of the way so that the delivery truck could maneuver.
Tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, Charge pondered the strange and sudden shift in his plans. He had thought to be clear through to Florida, instead it seemed he would be spending time in a state that had never been of any interest to him – not that interest, in at least one facet, wasn’t steadily developing.
Jon was a conundrum; granted an attractive conundrum. Charge had never considered age in men he found himself attracted to; however, looking back he realized how close to his age they had been. They had also been rather rough-and-tumble like himself. Jon wasn’t – he was refined, educated, and older. But, despite the polish, Charge could clearly see his intriguing host’s insecurities or general lack of experience when it came to more primal inclinations.
The light changed to green. Shifting the Porsche back into first, Charge eased forward. He considered what it was about Jon that tempted him to bait the other man, to lightly push some response or acknowledgment.
Charge glanced around and breathed a sigh of relief that traffic had eased. He had never been in a city where the surface streets could be as bad as any expressway. Sure, Los Angeles traffic was a beast, but, more often than not, people tended to stay on the eight-lanes-in-either-direction roadways. Apparently in Houston through traffic went everywhere, regardless of neighborhood, narrow lanes, roadwork, or anything else. It had taken Charge at least 45 minutes to get from Jon’s house to the small street he had left the ‘Vette the night before; when Jon had driven the stretch night before, 15 minutes had been the maximum time in transit.
Turning the sleek bronze car onto Jon’s street, Charge reached up and tapped the control that powered the gate. He considered the logistics of the small paved courtyard and hit the button for the garage – it was going to be a tight fit all around.
“If the road wasn’t so narrow I would have him drop my clunker against the curb,” Charge sighed as he whipped the Porsche up the drive and eased it into the garage with the other butterflies. He shut it down and slipped the keys into a back pocket. He leaned back against the small stretch of wall between the two bay doors and waited. Not more than five minutes had passed before Charge saw the cab of the tow truck ease past the driveway.
Charge watched as the tow truck pivoted in the street and slowly backed into and up the drive. He watched carefully, more concerned with the continued welfare of Jon’s home than the Corvette – doomed as it was to be the ugly stepsister among the shining examples of automotive brilliance in the garage. He directed the tow driver to drop the heap as cleanly as possible into a narrow gap between the garage and the concrete slab fence that surrounded the rear of Jon’s house.
The tow driver backed in another few feet before shifting his truck into park and letting himself out of the cab.
“Gonna have to push it into that space by hand, the courtyard is too tight to swing the truck in and have clearance for the ramp to come down,” the man commented as he walked around the front of the tow truck to meet Charge on the other side. “I’ll help you shove…”
His voice trailed off as he got a good look at the garage and the gems tucked inside.
“Jee-sus… Dayum son! What do you need with this one when you’ve got those?”
I would agree with that sentiment if I were actually Jon Forrest and could call them my own, Charge though as he forced his lips to curve into a smile as opposed to the sneer they kept trying to form.
“Sentimental reasons,” Charge finally murmured noncommittally.
“Must be, but I think my sentiments would have called it quits by now – personally speaking, that is.”
Charge’s laugh growled roughly, “I assure you, I’m working on it.”
The tow operator wandered to the control panel, surreptitiously glancing back to ogle Jon’s pristine toys, unblocked the car’s rear wheels and flipped on the tilt. The corvette was lifted high in the air. Charge’s ultra-sensitive ears twitched as the weight of the corvette tested the tension of the winch cable and the strength of the supporting chains. Once the tilt was nearly vertical, the panel of the flatbed shifted to serve as its own ramp. The tow operator gauged the angle and aligned the edge of the bed to sit flush on the brick and tiled ground of the courtyard. With another flip of a switch the winch slowly reversed, easing the corvette down the length of the flatbed.
Well, he was right – no way it would have fit if he had backed it all the way in.
Once the ‘Vette was on the ground and unhitched it was child’s play to push it into the narrow spot of the corner of the garage. After convincing the tow driver to steer, Charge push-walked the car back with hardly any effort.
“Thanks,” Charge offered the tow driver his hand as he spoke. “Much appreciated.”
“No problem. Now, if you’ll give me a quick scribble, that’ll be it.”
Charge barely got the tow truck out of the driveway and off the narrow street before the rumble of another large truck tweaked his ears. He quickly finished shifting the Porsche to the side of the side of the garage, with barely enough room between the car and the wall for the door to swing out so that he could get out of the car.
He would have tucked the Porsche against the fence, but with the clunker taking up real estate, there wouldn’t be enough room in the courtyard for the delivery truck to maneuver at all. He walked out of the garage and saw that the delivery truck was already backing down the drive. The driver eased back with an ease that bespoke experience. Once the cargo box was fully in the courtyard, the driver popped the delivery truck into park and climbed out of the cab.
“You Sorrenson?” the hefty man called as he walked toward Charge.
“Yeah.”
“Good – Mr. Forrest let me know that he wouldn’t be here today for the drop-off, but that a friend of his would be.”
“You deliver to him often?” Charge couldn’t help asking.
“This is my third delivery to him. I dropped the half-ton off last. He said he finished it – told me he was gonna plank the bed. Mind if I take a look? He always lets me get a look at what he has managed to do to the rusted heaps I drop off to him. JoJo Boldan,” the man introduced himself.
“Yeah – sure. In and to the right. Ok, I have to ask, ‘JoJo’?”
Jo Jo laughed, “My mama was certain she was going to finally get her girl, unfortunately my pa only shot boys. She had her heart set on Joanna Joyce, for my grandmothers, but as you can see I’m no Joanna.”
“I mean, yo
u could be if you really wanted,” Charge joked.
“Yeah, yeah – I know they make dresses in all sizes. Well when I popped out and the world could see I was a boy, Ma refused to name me, convinced that it was some mistake and some poor couple would come looking for their boy and bring her the pink bundle they were expecting. Eventually Pa had to handle the naming, and not being a creative man he could only think of my ma calling me JoJo the entire time I was cooking.”
“It isn’t just ‘JoJo’ is it?” Charge wondered aloud, worried for the child JoJo had been.
“Hah – no, no. He is better than that at least. Jonah Joyce. Jonah sounds like Joanna so his mama could be happy, and Joyce was just a middle name so it could stay as it was and his mother-in-law could just leave him be.” The round man shook his head, before grinning and headed toward the raised garage door. “I was damn excited to hear he had a new project. Meant I would get to see that old ford. Gotta’ admit, as much as I can appreciate the others, I am a truck man.” The delivery driver prattled as he waddled past Charge, the years sitting heavily on the man’s frame, while his wiry white hair stood up in all directions. “Well there she is – hello lovely!”
As Charge had cooed and gushed over the Corvette the night before, he had to smile as he watched a man old enough to be Jon’s grandfather bustle around the antique truck and cluck his tongue like a mother hen over a perfect chick.
“That young man sure does lovely work. He has standing offers for the ‘Vette there – the Hudson too.”
“Yes, Jon does great work.”
“It’ll be interesting to see this new one. Granted, it's more of a car than that truck was when I delivered it,” the delivery driver commented after wrapping up his adoration of the half-ton pick-up.
“That’s what Jon said,” Charge commented conversationally as he waited for the man to waddle back past him and head for the cargo gate between the Morgan and the rest of the world.
Charge glanced away and the ball-shaped man spun the wheels of the combination panel locking the gate in place, looking back when he heard the snub of the lock click away from the moorings. The driver lifted the hook-latch and gave the handle at the gate a good shove to have it springing upward on its tracks.
Inside the box, the Morgan waited; a large canvas drop cloth was draped over the small, sporty A-4 Roadster. Charge could tell that the car was missing the iconic, scooping wheel wells, but from what little he could glimpse, exposed by a fold in the drop cloth, the Morgan appeared to have at least one of the original spoke wheels.
If it has all four that would be worth having to hunt down the wheel wells – you almost can’t find those wheels.
“You know what year it is?” Charge asked. “Jon might have mentioned it, but I can’t, for the life of me, remember.”
“Yeah – the shipping slip says it’s a ’34.”
Nice.
Charge waited as JoJo lowered the ramp before striding up into the box and whipping away the drop cloth.
What the hell is that?
“Good thing Mr. Forrest does complete overhauls; that paint is going to be a right bitch all the same.”
As Charge stared into the worn-down vehicle the thick globs of salmon paint clinging to the dash and other hard surfaces practically glowed. Fuck, I hope that shit was there when Jon bought it – looks like a varnished automotive STD. Since when do vandals have such horrendous taste in colors?
V
The shop was blissfully close. Even blitzing through the yellow lights and whipping the turn into the parking lot, Charge barely made it through the front door on time.
“Can I help ya’?” A surly older full-human snipped from behind the counter as he stared at a computer screen.
“I have an appointment with Mister Jason Marsters,” Charge answered.
“You some West Coast boy?” The surly full-human sneered over the computer.
The tow driver’s “son” had been endearing, this jerk’s “boy” was demeaning. However, before Charge could reply with equitable animosity a large hand landed on his shoulder. Someone had walked into the lobby behind him.
“You Charge?” the owner of that large hand asked.
Charge turned to look into a pair of deep-set honey brown eyes. Those eyes smiled down at him, a wolfish smile tilted full lips in an oval shaped face – just as well as the man staring at him was a wolf. The wolf was a heavyset man in his late forties, dressed in oil-stained jeans, heavy work boots, and a faded concert t-shirt for some group called Battle Beast over which he had layered a Hawaiian shirt with the sleeves ripped off.
“I’m Marsters. Jon Forrest called me way too fucking early this morning about you.” Before Charge could affirm, Marsters just bulled on, “Jon and I go way back to college. When I saw his Porsche out there I expected him to be here.”
“No,” Charge quickly interjected. “He insisted I drive it as my car is a scrap-heap in his courtyard at the moment.”
“Hmmm – he must trust you to let you drive one of his babies. Well come on – let’s see if his trust is well-founded.”
Charge followed the husky wolf back through the door without another look at the surly man behind the counter.
“Martin is an asshole to the extreme, but he has some of the nimblest fingers I have ever seen. Just ignore him.”
“So you know he’s a racist old fuck.”
“Oh yeah – Treyvon, he’s the one that can disappear at dusk,” Marsters commented gesturing to a particularly dark-skinned man, “He calls Martin ‘that Ole Cracker Fuck,’ but if there is somewhere he can’t get his fingers because his hands are nearly as big as dinner plates, he goes to that Ole Cracker Fuck.”
“I see,” Charge murmured.
“Just ignore it. He’s an insulting bastard. None of the others are like that. Of course none of the others are like you and me either,” Marsters said as he turned to face Charge. “Tell me, how did Jon meet himself a jaguar.”
“I took a piece out of some guys that were trying to take a piece out of him.”
Marsters nodded sagely. “Been there. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that Jon can’t fight; he just doesn’t like conflict if he can avoid it.”
“His flight-or-fight is wired toward flight.”
“You got that. So, where you from, Charge? And that can’t possibly be your real name.”
“Rowland Sorrenson – but I don’t answer to Rowland. I spent the last decade in Nevada.”
“You work at a shop that dealt with a lot of high-ends out in the desert?”
“Las Vegas, so yes. Ferraris, Bugattis, American Classics, Bentleys, Alfa Romeos, a couple of classic Mercedes, and the occasional Aston.”
“’Kay – you got references?”
“Yeah, but the owner of the shop in Vegas is going to be pissed.” Charge continued at Marsters’ quizzically raised brow, “He has convinced himself that this is some youthful lark and that I will be back at work next week.”
“Ahh – well give me the number, I’ll make the call. You go ahead and take a look around the garage.”
“Umm, I don’t know if Jon mentioned, I don’t have my own tools at the moment.”
“Unusual for a mechanic…” Marsters let his comment trail off and simply stared and waited.
Charge shifted uncomfortably under that honey-brown gaze before finally admitting, “My former roommate pawned all of my tools. He’s a gambling addict.”
“And he still breathes?” Marsters asked, quite seriously.
“I left Las Vegas for a reason.”
“To avoid a justifiable homicide?”
“To avoid having to bury a bobcat in the desert.”
“Shit, the fucker’s a shifter as well? Son, no one would have blamed you for exterminating his useless ass.”
“Yeah – but we go way back, so my leaving was my nod to that.”
“All right. Well, you go on ahead,” Marsters said with a wave toward the garage – I’ll let you know my decision after I ca
ll your soon-to-be-pissed former boss.”
“You’re pretty cool with the fact I’m a cat,” Charge murmured as he walked through one of the bay doors, knowing the older wolf could hear him just fine.
“My mate is a damned fine cheetah,” the wolf muttered as he turned back toward the office.
Charge couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled in his chest. Most cheetah-shifters looked like super-models until they were ancient, and even then, the females had legs that went for miles. The thought of one such specimen with a husky greying wolf, made Charge wonder if the clingy canines were as good in the sack as he had always heard. Charge quickly put the thought out of his mind when a scrappy Latino stepped into his path.
“Oy! Customers have to wait in the lounge.” Mexico clung to every syllable that dropped from the short man’s lips as he gestured back toward the office.
“I get that jefe, but Marsters told me to come acquaint myself with the garage while he calls my reference.”
“You here for the job?”
“Yeah, I’m here for the job.”
The Latino humphed, and took a step back to size Charge up. His gaze lingered on Charge’s buffed shoes before sweeping upward to again linger on his hands. The other men in the garage had paused in their work to watch the exchange.
“You’re too niño bonito to be a mechanic, and I don’t know a mechanic who could work in those shoes.”
Charge didn’t bother to hide his eye roll, but before he could reply, the dark man, Marsters had pointed out earlier interjected, “You’re right about that Benny, but I’ve seen you prance around in those pointy-ass genie boots of yours.”
“Trival!” Benny hissed, “Not pointy-ass genie boots – they are Trival boots.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Treyvon interrupted. “Still, I know you can see as well as me that boy’s got mechanic’s hands.” He stepped around the front of the Mercedes he was working on and offered Charge his hand, “I’m Treyvon, and short-and-angry here is Benny.”
“Nice to meet you. Everyone calls me Charge.”
The other men moved forward to introduce themselves when Benny cried, “Oy! I am not finished with him!”