Days after his expulsion, Ed trudged along Piedmont Avenue in Oakland, trailing a string of job application rejections behind him.
No work references. No family or friends. No college transcript. Of course nobody wants me, because I’m a total loser. Like my father.
He rushed past the maroon awnings of Fenton’s Creamery, where he’d unsuccessfully applied for a job scooping ice cream. Next he sprinted to avoid the red-tiled Little Mao Mao Chinese, voted best of Oakland, where the owner had not even handed him an application. When a sign in the window of a one-story white stucco building proclaimed ‘Help Wanted,’ Ed passed it quickly, head down. Then he returned for a second look.
The bicycle wheels hanging in the two arched windows intrigued him. He shoved open the glass entrance door and started when an old-fashioned bell tinkled as it shut behind him.
The store’s fluorescent lighting failed to compete with the afternoon California sun. Ed’s eyes took a minute to adjust. The air smelled of oil, hot rubber, and pine floor wax. Gradually, Ed made out a man at the cash register negotiating with a customer. He studied the clerk and assessed his best approach.
The older man was clean-shaven and wore outdated plastic glasses with large lenses that dropped to mid-cheek. His lined face was roasted a deep brown and contrasted starkly with the grey of his crew cut. He walked from behind the counter with a slight limp.
Might be ex-military. That could give me an edge. He may be scared of robbery or mugging if he can’t run. I’m a Navy brat who can act clean-cut. See how far that gets me.
When the customer left, Ed approached. “Excuse me, sir.”
“Be right with you.” The man glanced at Ed over his shoulder and disappeared through a back door.
Ed looked around the small store. Every available space was crammed with bicycles. There were rows standing on the floor and rows hanging from hooks in the ceiling.
“Sorry about the wait.” The man placed a box of bicycle gloves near the register. “How can I help you?”
“I’m here about the sign in the window.” Ed scanned the man’s face for interest. “The help wanted sign? I’d most certainly appreciate the opportunity to apply, sir.”
Dell Stoke raised an eyebrow. “You’d appreciate the opportunity, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
The man snorted. “Sir, is it? I haven’t been called sir by a kid around here since my hair was brown.” He ran fingers, black under the nails with grease, over his head. He regarded Ed with unveiled skepticism. “What kind of trouble you been in?”
“Trouble, sir? I’m not quite sure I know what you mean.”
“I said, what kind of trouble you been in?”
Tiny beads of perspiration broke out on Ed’s brow. He raised his hand to wipe them away, then caught himself and stood still.
“Don’t lie to me now. That ain’t no way to make a first impression.”
Ed’s shoulders slumped. “Okay. My driver’s license is suspended. I got arrested for DUI. Before that for petty theft. And last week they kicked me out of community college for punching some dude. I’ll save you the trouble. You’re not interested. I know.” He turned toward the exit.
The old man chuckled and slapped his good leg. “Got most of it right. Figured on the DUI and the theft. Missed the college suspension.”
“Expulsion. Sorry to have troubled you.” Ed walked to the door.
“Whoa. Hold on there. Not so fast.” Dell held out his hand like a school crossing guard. “You don’t want to fill out an application form?”
“I thought…”
“You thought wrong. Come over to the register.” Dell walked behind the counter, opened a cabinet, and took out a yellow legal pad. “What’s your name?”
Ed told him and Dell scribbled it down without asking how it was spelled.
“Your address and phone? Got any work experience? What you know about bikes?”
He jotted down the answers. Ed chewed on his lower lip while Dell wrote a short paragraph and drew a line beneath it. He turned the block of paper to face Ed.
It read:
I, Edmundo Galeano, accept the part-time position of general gofer at Stoke’s Spokes. I will not steal, I will not come to work drunk, and I will be polite to customers. I will not fight with any of the other employees, no matter how obnoxious. I will be on time. I promise to do this, and Wendell Stoke promises to pay me two dollars above minimum wage.
When Ed finished reading, Dell pointed a stubby finger at a line at the bottom of the page. “Sign there and you got yourself a job.”
Ed picked up the ballpoint pen and twisted it nervously in his fingers. He blinked and put it down. Then he looked from the paper to Dell and back again. Dell’s square jaw shifted slowly, like a cow chewing cud.
“Take your time and think about it.”
Ed picked up the pen, signed his name, hesitated, and added a medieval flourish under Galeano, feeling as though he were signing away his past.
A fresh start. A chance to make myself into something the world thinks I’m not.
***
Dell found plenty of things for the new hire to do around the shop. Ed dusted window exhibits, stocked display racks, cleaned wrenches, arranged bottles of lubricant, washed greasy rags, and chased after loose ball bearings by crawling around the shop floor with a magnet. Every task, large or small, took place under the watchful eye of Arnie, the head mechanic. Unlike Dell, Arnie recognized only the worst in Ed and treated him accordingly. Ed soon understood why Dell had made him promise not to fight with anyone.
“You blind? Missed that rag over there,” Arnie would say, pointing to a reeking cloth he threw under a counter. Or, “Got a hot date tonight? Good luck looking like a desk jockey. You won’t get that stain off your hands for a week. I put something special in the solvent.” Ed looked at his dark blue hands and cursed under his breath. But the arrow hit home when Arnie attacked Ed’s mother. “Bet she dumped you and ran. I can always tell. You got the look of a total loser. Your mom must’ve been counting the minutes ’til she could forget all about your sorry ass.”
Dell observed the interactions between Arnie and Ed without comment. He stuck to the front of the store and let Arnie, the best bike mechanic in Oakland, run the back.
It’s like Dell can read my mind, Ed thought. I keep thinking, if Dell steps in, then I’m going to beat Arnie to a pulp. Don’t care if I walk away in handcuffs. But he never steps in, and I end up thinking maybe it’s not worth fighting over after all.
Under Dell’s watch, Ed walked away from every coarse comment, every push, every dirty rag thrown at his feet. He counted to fifty and stepped into the back alley to calm down.
***
Years later, watching Dell’s coffin being lowered into the ground, Ed felt as though his past were being buried with it.
I’ll make you proud, Dell.
As the new owner of Stoke’s, he opened the shop early and stayed late. Early on a Saturday one May, he unpacked a box of helmets that had arrived the previous afternoon, stacking them on wire shelves next to the other accessories. The shop bell tinkled. Ed turned in surprise. An unscheduled customer before nine on a weekend was rare.
“Can I help you?”
A thin, long-haired youth in sagging jeans and an open-fronted Hawai’ian shirt stood before him. A broad, green and red snake tattoo slithered realistically across his midriff.
“Yeah, dude. I want to buy a Harley.”
“’Fraid you’re in the wrong store.” Ed crossed his arms.
“Yeah, right.” The guy tilted back his head and laughed. “Seriously, I wanna buy a bike.”
Ed shoved the box of helmets under the rack. He spread his arms. “Looking for anything specific?”
“Uh huh.” The man thrust his hands into his pockets. “A mountain bike. The best one you got in the store.”
Ed smiled.
One of those customers. The ones who come in asking for a high-end item but leave with a basic Fuj
i or Trek. Fun to make this guy squirm.
“Certainly.” Ed led him to the front of the shop. “The best we have is right over here.” He pointed to a Cannondale Scalpel Ultimate in a position of honor. “That retails for just under ten grand.”
Ed got the reaction he was looking for and almost whooped with laughter when he saw the man’s eyes widen into saucers. “Perhaps you’d like to custom order? People who want the highest quality usually order the frame separately. Then they hang on the best parts they can afford. I could easily help you build something.”
The guy looked around at the bike skeletons Ed pointed out. No tires. No pedals. No gears. He shuffled his feet. “Lemme talk to the owner.”
“You’re looking at him.” Ed enunciated each syllable.
The youth’s face brightened. “So what do you ride, dude? You’re the owner. You must have something fancy.”
“What I ride is right over here.” Ed indicated a shiny bicycle with everything attached.
The guy looked at him. “You didn’t make your bike out of parts? I thought that was the best.”
Ed reddened. “This is an excellent bike. I’m a busy guy. Got a store to run, you know?”
The young man lifted the price tag and looked. He nodded. “Is this my size?”
Ed assessed him, from his torn purple tennis shoes to his long, scruffy hair. “You’re about my height. So that’s the correct size.”
“Okay, I’ll take it.” The young man’s hands fiddled in his pockets. “Does it come in any other colors?”
Ed stared. “No, this is it.”
“Fine.” The guy scratched his head and looked around the store. “What else do I need? A helmet? Gloves?”
“Yes.” A shade of respect tinged Ed’s voice. “You’ll need those.”
“Awesome.” The guy’s eyes twinkled. “What you got for a helmet?”
Ed outfitted him with an exact replica of his own favorite biking gear. Helmet, gloves, shorts, jersey, shoes, socks, a hydration pack, and sunglasses accumulated in a pile on the counter.
Ed rang up the total. “How’re you paying?”
“Cash, dude.” The man brought his hands out of his pockets. Each fist clutched a roll of bills.
Ed raised an eyebrow. “The total’s over five thousand dollars.”
“It’s all good. I robbed a bank.”
Ed raised both eyebrows.
“I’m messing with you, man. I totaled my car and cashed the insurance check yesterday. Thought I’d better get a safer set of wheels, you know? Since I got no license.”
Ed chuckled. “I have some experience with that myself.” He handed the man the receipt. “Hold on to that and don’t take the tags off, in case something doesn’t fit. But you should be good.”
The guy raised his chin in a quick nod. “Thanks. I’m Jerry Kriebel, by the way. Glad to do business with you.” He rolled the bike out of the store. “People’ll think we’re twins.” He waved over his shoulder as he pushed his new purchase down the street.
***
The next day Ed asked Officer Turangeo to wait while he closed the shop. He told the wide-eyed mechanics to go home early and pulled two swivel stools together in the back.
Arnie didn’t leave, straightening tools and folding rags.
“Arnie, get out of here. Now.”
Arnie picked up an insulated lunch bag. He shuffled out the back door and closed it carefully behind him.
“Have a seat.” Ed rolled a stool toward the officer. “And before you get started, I’m not under arrest or anything, right?”
“I have some questions for you, Mr. Galeano, about the accident on Mount Tamalpais with that little girl. Where were you at around eight yesterday morning?”
“Yesterday? I was out mountain biking.”
“And where was that, exactly?” The officer removed a small paper pad and pen from his jacket pocket.
Ed’s throat dried up. He coughed to clear it. “Around Mount Tam.”
The officer’s eye twitched. “Can you be more specific?”
Ed rose and retrieved a bike trail map from the front of the store. He spread it on the workshop counter, took a pen, and traced a route. “I parked here, at the lot across from the Mountain Home Inn.”
“Uh huh.” Officer Turangeo jotted notes. “About what time did you get to the parking lot?”
“Around seven thirty, I guess.”
“Okay. What did you do next?”
“I rode up here.” Ed pointed to a trail to the north. “Then around here, and here, and then down there and, after this, back to the car.” He traced a long loop on the map. The winding path crossed Mount Tam, circled two lakes, snaked down to Stinson Beach, and climbed the mountain west of Muir Woods. “It’s about thirty-five miles.”
“How long did that take you?”
“About six hours. I stopped for a bit at Stinson Beach.” Ed poked the map.
“Did anyone see you on this ride?”
“Yes.” He looked the officer in the eyes. “Someone saw me. Actually, it’s kind of funny. See, I met this woman in the parking lot.”
“In the parking lot across from the Mountain Home Inn?”
“Yeah. She parked near me and had trouble getting her bike off one of those trunk racks, you know? They’re kind of tricky. I helped her. We got talking. She was wearing one of those lycra body suits, the kind where you can see everything although you can’t see anything…” The officer drummed his fingers on the counter. “Anyway, I invited her to join me.”
“Then what happened?”
“We did what I said. We followed this route.” He pushed the map closer to the officer. “I split my lunch with her when we got to the beach. We ended up back at the parking lot.” Ed’s voice petered out.
“And then?”
“Well, she came back to my place.”
“In your car?”
“No, she followed me in hers.”
“Did she spend the night?”
“No. She left around nine.”
“So you’re saying you have an alibi from seven thirty in the morning until nine at night? I’m sure you won’t mind if we check that out with her?”
“Uh, no. I guess not.”
“I hope not. What’s her name?” Officer Turangeo poised pen over pad.
“Well, that’s the thing.” Ed ran his hands through his hair. “I didn’t actually get her name.”
“You mean her full name. What’s her first name?”
“I don’t know.”
The officer’s pen tapped the counter. “You expect me to believe you spent the whole day with this woman and never got her name?”
“It wasn’t that kind of a day. We were mostly riding bikes. You don’t talk when you’re riding.”
“And during the evening activities?”
“It never came up.”
“So can you describe anything about her? Her car? Her license plate number? Anything that would help identify her?”
“She had short red hair. Kind of straight…” His eyes roamed the ceiling as he searched his brain for information. “Her nose was…well, kind of normal, I guess. In general, she had this…normal kind of face. Pretty. With freckles, I think. One thing was unusual. She had this insane set of piercings around her…” He drew circles on his chest. “You know.”
“Her nipples.”
“Yeah. There were these rods and studs that made a heart.” Ed held up his thumbs and forefingers to demonstrate. “There can’t be many people who have something like that.”
“Probably not. But it’s not exactly a feature we can post on a milk carton. Besides red hair, what else can you remember?”
“Her car was blue, I think. Or maybe brown? Anyway, it was a sedan. I think a Japanese model. I wasn’t paying attention.” He closed his eyes. “She had one of those air freshener things dangling over the dash.”
Officer Turangeo stared at him.
The counter squeaked as Ed leaned on it. “I know I sound li
ke an idiot. But you have to believe me. I didn’t know I was going to have to describe this to anyone.”
“The car’s probably going to help us the most right now.” Officer Turangeo snapped the notepad shut.
“So, I’m in the clear, right?”
The officer stood. “I wouldn’t say that. We have to find this woman to confirm your alibi. Right now the evidence against you is only circumstantial. Still.” He paused and stood in the doorway that led back to the store. “Don’t leave town without letting us know.”
Ed exhaled as though he’d been punched.
I can’t believe this. Getting laid was all I was thinking about yesterday.
Ed blurted one final thought at the door to the street. “You said someone identified me. That’s not possible.”
“A resident near the scene said he waved to you. You rode your bike past his car about ten minutes before the accident.”
“I don’t remember seeing anyone. Who was it?”
“I’d rather not say at the moment.” The officer opened the door. “I’ll be in touch. If you have any questions or remember anything else, call the Mill Valley Police Department. Have a nice day.”
Ed locked the door. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Arnie exiting the alley that led to the back of the store.
The glass door rattled as he unlocked it and flung it open. “You fucking bastard. You spying scum.”
Arnie stopped and smirked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if the back door was cracked and I heard you making up shit, well, it’s public property.”
“Don’t you dare spread lies about me in the shop. I have an alibi.” He marched up to Arnie and shoved him.
“Whoa, man.” Arnie brushed his polo shirt with exaggerated care. “You better think about what you’re doing before you start anything. You got enough trouble coming your way.”
Wild Within (Wild at Heart #1) Page 10