The Mechanic

by Tom Fowler

  Smitty eyed Tyler like he knew him but moved on to business. “You got a résumé or anything?”

  “Haven’t made one of those in . . . ever.”

  “No shit?” Smitty said with wide eyes.

  Tyler shrugged. “I enlisted in the army at eighteen. Spent twenty-four years there. Then, I went into private security. I left a few months ago.”

  “I thought I recognized you.”

  “You’re one up on me, then,” Tyler said.

  Smitty pointed to a picture mounted on the paneled wall behind the largest desk. “My son, Jake. He’s a reservist now, but several years ago, you talked to him about special operations.”

  Tyler looked at the photo. Bits of the conversation played in his memory. It happened after his third tour in Afghanistan. “It must have been a decade or so by now.”

  “Probably,” Smitty said. “My boy did well.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Taking some time off. His name’s on the sign, but he ain’t here too much. It’s why I’m trying to hire someone.”

  “Conveniently enough, I’m here to apply.”

  “You were special forces?” Smitty asked.

  Tyler nodded. “For a while. Four tours of Afghanistan. The rest of the time, I was a Ninety-One Bravo . . . wheeled vehicle mechanic.”

  “Now, you want to work on classic cars?”

  “Better than computerized ones. I fixed Jeeps and Hummers in the service.”

  Smitty walked behind the counter and retrieved a dingy mug. He poured himself a cup of coffee whose consistency reminded Tyler of motor oil. “Want any?”

  “I already had two,” Tyler said.

  “A third ain’t gonna hurt.”

  Based on what Smitty poured out of the pot, it probably would. “Maybe later.”

  Smitty added some powdered creamer, stirred the dull brown liquid, and took a sip. “So you split your time between working on vehicles and special operations.” Tyler nodded. “You better at fixing cars or shooting people?”

  “I’d like to think I’m good at both.”

  “Anything else?”

  “You can check out my car.” Tyler tossed him the key. “I’ve done all the work myself.”

  “What are you driving?”

  “The Four-Four-Two out there.”

  “I’ll take a look.” Smitty walked outside. Tyler didn’t watch him, instead looking at the desks. He presumed the largest one belonged to Smitty himself. When your name was first on the sign, you got the biggest workspace. The second looked like the larger model at three-quarters scale. The third desk was basically shoved into the corner. It looked straight out of a middle school surplus store.

  A minute later, the chime dinged again. “What year is she?” Smitty said.

  “Seventy-two.”

  “Rocket V8?”

  “You looked at it,” said Tyler. “All four hundred fifty-five cubic inches worth.”

  “Didn’t want the three-fifty?” Smitty asked.

  “Why would you ever get the smaller engine?”

  “The automatic, though?”

  “Needed one,” Tyler said. “Lots of wear and tear on my legs. I couldn’t handle stop-and-go with a stick anymore.”

  “Original parts?”

  “Is this a quiz?”

  “Maybe,” Smitty said with a smile. “Hell, I like the fact you called it a Four-Four-Two instead of a Four-Forty-Two. Young people get it wrong.”

  “They get a lot wrong,” Tyler said.

  The comment drew a knowing smirk. “Original parts?”

  “Mostly. I’ve gotten a little more power out of the engine. It’s about four hundred now. And I just put a new titanium exhaust on.”

  “You said you were looking for a job?”

  If this constituted a job interview, it was easy. “I am.”

  “Good. Can you start at nine o’clock tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll be here,” Tyler said.

  “See you then,” said Smitty. They bumped elbows.

  Tyler walked out and got back in his car. He smiled and pounded the steering wheel. Lexi would be pleased. No more bureaucracy. No more petty bosses. No more shooting and killing.

  He could finally move on with his life.

  Jake Smith looked at his phone.

  It was the second burner he bought this week. They learned the number of the first one. A few threatening texts later, and Jake tossed it off a bridge and purchased a different model. So far, no one reached out to him. He’d maintained radio silence on his end.

  The contact listed as Tom’s Pizza was really his father. Jake wanted to call him and let him know things were all right . . . for large values of “all right” at least. Sure, he was hiding out in a hotel he’d never set foot in otherwise, keeping a constant watch on his surroundings, and doing his best to sleep with one eye open.

  It all beat the alternative.

  The army taught Jake a few things about tech, and he used what he learned now to help himself stay a step ahead of his pursuers. This hotel didn’t have much in the way of security. It made sneaking downstairs and installing a wide-angle webcam above the door easy. Jake also set one up in the hallway leading to his room. He could monitor the stairs and elevator at the same time.

  Both devices fed their data into an app on his phone. Motion activated them, and they could last a couple days on a single charge. Jake’s mobile would buzz once when the front-door camera picked something up and twice for the hallway. He figured the second one going off gave him a minute to get out of the room. It would be enough time. He’d done it before.

  Jake sat on the bed. His father always taught him to be honest. Tell the truth. Do the right thing. He did, and it landed him squarely in the soup. The army talked a good game about wanting soldiers to report bad behavior. They didn’t do a lot to protect those who came forward, however. Once Jake learned he vaulted to enemy number one on his former commander’s list, he hit the road, and he’d been there for the last week. He wanted to get out of the city, but he also needed to make sure nothing happened to his dad. It was a delicate and tiring balance.

  One day soon, he hoped he could go back to a normal life.

  3

  Tyler woke up early. He’d been doing it since he was eighteen, and no matter the day or occasion, his brain kicked into gear around six o’clock. He trudged downstairs, started a pot of coffee, and brought the newspaper in. The delivery guy kept it in the same ZIP code as his front porch this time.

  After a hot cup of caffeine and a quick perusal of depressing headlines, Tyler walked back upstairs. He sat in an old wooden chair his grandfather made by hand. A fresh sheet of cold-pressed watercolor paper stared back at him. Despite never being a talented artist, Tyler had been painting for about six years. A psychiatrist at the VA diagnosed him with PTSD. She offered a couple of possible alternative therapeutic suggestions, because Tyler loathed the idea of a support group. He chose painting.

  It sounded like bunk at first, but he could track his moods in his outputs. When he first took it up, his work was dark and gloomy. Over time—and with semi-regular visits to the shrink—the colors brightened, and the gloominess left. Recently, Tyler took to drawing classic cars he liked. His most recent effort—a Corvette—waited for a frame. He didn’t display much of his work out of concerns for the quality of the output and his own privacy. The ‘Vette looked good, though. It deserved a spot on the wall.

  A short while into his new hobby, Tyler upgraded his supplies. He bought a proper easel, better paper, and high-quality watercolors. They helped elevate the quality of his compositions. His father’s voice reminded him only a poor craftsman would blame his tools, but Tyler saw the results. Practice helped, but so did working with better materials.

  Tyler started with the blue sky, choosing a color to represent the early morning. He would let it dry before adding the sun. He’d rushed this on some of his initial projects and paid for it with a dismal circle of green on the horizon.
White fluffy clouds would come next. Early on, Tyler blitzed through paintings as quickly as he could. Over time, he grew to appreciate what he did, and each now took many hours longer than they did then.

  After filling in the sky and drawing a ribbon of black stretching into the distance, Tyler packed up his supplies. He threw on a pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt. Lexi’s bedroom door remained closed. Like most teenagers, she could sleep for twelve hours and still manage to be tired at night. When he got downstairs, Tyler left her a quick note on the dining room table.

  He climbed into the 442 and drove to Smitty and Son. Twenty-five minutes later, Tyler parked in the lot and walked into the shop. The chime went off when the door opened, and Smitty’s head whipped around. His shoulders loosened, and his grip on the desk relaxed. Tyler frowned. “Everything all right?”

  “Sure.” Smitty waved a hand. “Didn’t sleep well last night. I guess I’m a little jumpy is all.”

  It made Tyler wonder. The outside of the shop still showed damage. It could have been bad weather or maybe a few local punks wreaking havoc. Then, there was the matter of Smitty’s son. Missing in action . . . allegedly taking some time off. The whole situation added up to something dangerous, and Tyler didn’t care for the math. He was finished playing hero. “Nothing else is wrong?”

  “Nope,” Smitty said. “You here to be a shrink or work on cars? I don’t pay to sit on your couch.”

  “All right. What do we have today?”

  Smitty jerked his head to the side. “Oil change on the Camaro in bay one.”

  Tyler smiled. “Starting me off easy?”

  “Pretty much.”

  A locker inside the repair area held work shirts, and Tyler slipped one on. It was a little long, but it fit pretty well. He raised the Camaro and inspected the undercarriage. The exhaust was aftermarket and recent, but most of the engine looked original. Changing the oil would be quick and easy. Tyler wondered why someone who drove such a classic car wouldn’t also do at least the basic maintenance on it.

  While old sludge drained into a pan, Tyler looked through the window. Smitty sat behind the desk. He glanced around often and nearly jumped out of his seat when the phone rang. A growing unease gripped Tyler as he wondered what Smitty was involved in.

  Jake tossed and turned throughout the night. He hadn’t gotten any real sleep in at least two weeks. The price he paid for what he did. It’s worth it, he told himself. He repeated the mini-mantra every morning. Some days, belief came easier than others.

  When he rolled out of bed, Jake checked his phone first. No activity anywhere. He was safe for now. He got in the shower, and the hot water helped him wake up. He’d need to figure out washing his clothes soon. Jake put on his last clean ones and stuffed what he wore the previous day into his rucksack. He checked his app again.

  Still good.

  When Jake dropped out of sight, he knew he’d be missing out on things like eating in restaurants and going to bars. He popped into convenience stores or supermarkets at odd hours, making sure to hide his face while he bought snacks and water for a couple days. He’d need to pop in to some place again soon.

  With the coast still clear, Jake dropped to the hotel floor. In sets, he performed a hundred crunches, a hundred pushups, planked for four minutes, and did sixty body-weight squats. When he finished, he ripped open a bland protein bar and ate it, washing it down with his second-to-last bottle of water. He’d refill it in the bathroom sink before he left in case he couldn’t hit up a store today.

  Jake’s phone buzzed, and a feeling of dread gripped him. He checked his security app first, but it still showed no alerts. Next, he went into texts. One new message.

  Good morning, Jake. How much longer can you stay on the run?

  “Shit,” Jake said to the empty room. He packed his rucksack again, collected his cameras, and left the hotel. As he crossed the street, he scanned the area. No one he recognized. No car or SUV casing the place. They found his burner number again, but they still didn’t have his location.

  Not yet at least.

  Jake would need another new phone soon. He tried to puzzle out how they found his present number and came up empty. As he walked away from the hotel, Jake wondered how much longer he could stay on the lam.

  A little while later, the Camaro owner walked in. Smitty took care of printing the receipt. Tyler was fine to let him handle the customers. He’d rather work on cars than deal with people. No sooner did he finish the thought than Smitty brought the guy around to the work bays. His face and hair made him look about Tyler’s age, though he was much taller and thinner. “She ready?”

  “She is,” Tyler said. He thought he’d be pulling the car out into the lot. Instead, he handed the owner the keys. He found the whole situation irregular, but Smitty didn’t seem to care.

  “You new?”

  Tyler didn’t want to engage the man in conversation. Another car waited for him. Smitty stood there watching them, an awkward third wheel to a chat Tyler now felt compelled to engage in. “First day here.”

  The customer nodded. “Smitty and his boy put the exhaust on for me. I love looking at these cars and driving them, but I don’t know how to fix them.”

  “Good thing we’re here, then,” Tyler said.

  “It is.” The man clapped him on the shoulder and got into the Camaro. He fired it up and drove it out of the bay.

  “You let all of them come back here?” Tyler asked once the classic muscle car pulled out of the lot with a roar.

  “No,” he said. “Frank there lost his wife a year or so ago. I think he needs the company. He’s a good guy, so I indulge him.”

  Tyler couldn’t find fault with the reasoning. “What’s the newer Camaro need?” He inclined his head toward the red IROC edition awaiting his care.

  “Oil and brakes.”

  “Trusting me with two jobs now?” Tyler said. “I must be moving up in the world.”

  “Figured I’d wait a few days before I give you an engine rebuild,” Smitty said with a chuckle.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve done one.”

  A dark gray SUV pulled into the lot. Its windows were closer to black than clear, obscuring the view of the people in the front seats. Tyler could see the outlines of a driver and passenger. The vehicle stopped in the lot and idled. Smitty wiped his hand over his mouth and paced back and forth. Tyler glanced between his new boss and the Yukon. Did Smitty know these guys, whoever they were? Were they responsible for the damage to the shop?

  Tyler didn’t want to get involved in someone else’s mess. He left his crusading ways behind when he walked away from Patriot Security. Working on cars was a less stressful job which allowed him to be a better father to Lexi. Still, Smitty’s demeanor made him curious. “Everything all right?” he asked when the other man walked past.

  “Sure.” Smitty turned around and began another loop of the shop floor. Whoever sat in the SUV hadn’t gotten out yet. Whoever they were, they upset Smitty by pulling into the lot and sitting there. Tyler looked at the vehicle and committed the license plate to memory.

  Then, he got to work on the IROC.

  4

  Tyler got the car on the lift and tried to ignore the SUV but couldn’t stand with his back to the open bay knowing two men sat out there. Once he stood under the vehicle, he gave it the once-over. It was a mid-‘eighties IROC Camaro. Tyler remembered when they came out. He liked them but preferred the similar Pontiac Trans Am. The pop-up headlights made it much cooler—this was the ‘eighties, after all—and Knight Rider chose the Trans Am over its Chevy cousin. Tyler, who was twelve when the show debuted, would have made the same decision.

  He drained the old oil and inspected the chassis. The brakes were worn; the owner brought the car in just in time. The front CV joints would need to be replaced soon. The shocks were also coming to the end of their useful life. The owner should have noticed the diminished ride quality. Maybe the sound of the V8 covered the multitude of suspension s
ins.

  With the old oil safely in a container, Tyler put the cap back on and lowered the car. He added new oil and checked the other engine fluids. All good. If he needed to leave Smitty’s, Jiffy lube would want him. Tyler smirked at the thought and shook his head. Classic car people liked and appreciated their vehicles. They were a tolerable subset of the general public. Jiffy Lube invited all sorts. Soccer moms who drove massive SUVs to take their kids to practice. Stuffed shirts who drove German luxury cars for the badges and kept their hipster beards neatly groomed.

  They were the kind of people Tyler could live without.

  After Tyler lowered the hood back into place, he heard voices coming from the office. Not just Smitty’s. The silhouettes no longer appeared in the black Yukon. Tyler couldn’t make out anything being said. He moved closer to the door separating the work area from the office and peeked through the small window. Two guys talked to Smitty, who leaned away from them and stared down at the desk. The wiry member of the duo did the talking. His larger compatriot stood there and looked menacing, and he was very good at it. Both their jackets showed telltale bulges at the hip. Their posture and short hair suggested military pasts. Tyler was close enough now to hear what they said. “You expect me to believe you don’t know where your son is?” the more slender one asked.

  “I don’t,” Smitty said in a defeated tone.

  “You don’t what? Don’t know where he is or don’t expect me to believe it?”

  “He left. He didn’t tell me where or for what.” Whatever the reason, if these two assholes were asking around about him, it couldn’t be good. The confrontation—probably not the first—explained the damage to the shop and Smitty’s nervousness. Now Tyler understood what he got himself into. He should have trusted his instincts when he saw the broken windows.

  He opened the door, and everyone looked at him. “Everything all right, Smitty?”