Muscle Car Man

Chapter 1 Buckhorn, Arizona June 18 Jeff Castle slammed down the phone. He wanted to throw it across the room. How in the bloody f*****g hell am I supposed to be ten places at once? If I can’t get some reliable help this week I don’t know what I’m going to do. To some, Jeff’s business might be termed a junkyard, but to aficionados of classic cars, especially the “muscle cars” of the sixties and early seventies, it was a haven of dreams. Row upon row, literally dozens of restorable vehicles, and others good for parts to pull and reassemble. They could become the car many had always lusted after and longed for, or maybe owned at some earlier time and now wanted to recapture those bygone days. Mustangs and Trans Ams, ‘Cudas, Firebirds and Camaros—they were all here, some rusted heaps of worn out metal, but others just waiting for the right person to restore them to their former glory. Jeff had inherited the business from his late uncle and taken over management a year ago. He’d been looking for a way to get off the high tech fast track, which had suddenly become a slippery road to hell for him with the economic upheavals. The dubious inheritance had held the promise of providing him an alternative. He’d always enjoyed tinkering on old cars himself, but where was the poetic justice in sitting in the midst of them without a spare minute to work on the one he’d selected for his own? Seemed he’d just jumped from frying pan to frying pan, if not directly into the flames. Today someone had discovered yet another candidate to offer him, this one half-buried in a tumble-down barn down the valley. He almost regretted the recurring ad he ran in regional papers offering to buy classic cars in salvageable condition. Another ad offered parts and vehicles in various conditions from restorable to only parts and scrap. Business was fitful, but getting better. He’d need to take the slider down to pick the car up—if it was what the man claimed. If not, he’d have to consider how much he could afford to offer for it and even if it was worth the bother. But in order to make the run, he’d have to close and lock the gates and lose goodness knew how many parts sales and possible whole vehicle sales while he was gone. The lack of reliable employees was getting the best of him. With a sigh, he drove the slider tow truck out through the gate, shut it, and hung up a closed sign. Be back soon, it read. Please come again. Some would and some would not, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. He climbed into the cab and drove off down the gravel road, trailing a rooster tail of dust. Some miles out of town, he spied a man walking on the side of the road. Picking up hitchhikers was not something he normally did. Later on he never could quite decide what made him stop. The man certainly didn’t look too appealing, dirty and ragged, a week’s worth of beard darkening his lean face, and a hungry, haunted look in his eyes. Still, something made Jeff pull over. Maybe because it was a smoking hot day and this road down between declining and deserted farms into the edge of the desert didn’t promise many rides. “Hey, fella, do you need a lift?” The man looked up, hardly a trace of hope in the wary yet wistful expression on his face. “It’d help.” He waited, not barging forward to reach for the door, as if he thought Jeff would drive off once he got a good look. “Well, come on. I’m short on time and heading farther out before I go back to town, but if that’s okay with you, get in.” The stranger climbed in, grabbed the seat belt without Jeff having to remind him, and then sat back, his shoulders slumping as if in relief. “Hot day,” he said. “Look back of the seat. I’ve got some water in a cooler there if you’re thirsty. Not good to get dehydrated. It can happen fast out here. Humidity is about five percent today.” “Thanks.” The man turned and reached, took out a bottle and opened it with exaggerated care. He finished the whole thing in about five swallows. Jeff glanced across at his unexpected passenger. Up close the man didn’t look too bad. True, he had dust on him, and his clothes had seen better days, but he didn’t have the dirt-crusted complexion of someone who no longer cared and hadn’t bathed in weeks, and he didn’t smell that way either. Clean shaven and with a decent haircut, the guy wouldn’t be half bad looking. Probably just down on his luck. “I’m Jeff Castle,” he said. “I have a junkyard, but it’s not just a standard old clunker one. I specialize in muscle cars. There’s supposed to be a Barracuda in pretty good shape down here on a farm a guy just bought. If it’s half what he said, I’ll be taking it back.” “Name’s Mike,” the stranger said after a moment. “Home was once in east Texas. Now it’s not anywhere in particular. My old car broke down, and I guess I took the wrong direction trying to make my way back to the highway. I was trying to locate the place where my uncle used to live, but it looks like he’s long gone.” “What’s your trade? Looking for a job?” Again the offer was impulsive, but Jeff figured if Mike was hungry enough he might be willing to work, for a while anyway. Right now any warm body and willing hands would be better than what he had. Covering all the bases alone was just not hacking it. “I used to do a little stock car driving and some mechanic work, but I’m out of practice. Just so you don’t find out later, I got out of prison about six weeks ago. I didn’t do all they sent me up for, but that’s a moot point. I was convicted and served my time. I’m finding not too many businesses want to hire a con.” Jeff shrugged. “You can’t be bonded, but I’ve got a lot of things to do around the place that don’t require bond. If you’re willing to work, I can give you a place to stay, three meals a day and some spending money. We can probably even get your car if you want to keep it. What is it?” “A sixty-five Mustang, one I used to race. It sat at my sister’s place for several years and her kids kind of trashed it. Wasn’t in great shape anyway. Prob’ly should have left it there, but I didn’t. It got me all the way here from Beaumont anyway.” Jeff laughed. “I’ve got a whole row of ‘em in my yard. You ought to be able to cannibalize whatever you need to get it back in shape. We can work something out.” “Man, I don’t know how to thank you. I’ve got about five dollars in my pocket and a change of clothes back in the car. That’s all I own in the effin’ world. A job and a place to stay sound damn good to me. I’ll try not to make you regret it.” “Just out of curiosity, what did you get sent up for?” Jeff slid another glance across at his unexpected passenger. Hell, he could be a serial killer for all I know but somehow I don’t think so. “Aggravated assault and then a cop got involved. Yeah, I did do part of it, but there were those good ole extenuating circumstances, none of which came out in the trial.” Mike shrugged. “s**t happens. It’s over, and I hope I can get the blot off my name eventually.” * * * * The ‘Cuda was a surprising gem. It had been mostly sheltered from the weather for goodness only knew how long. The body was in unusually good shape. After they moved some fallen boards off the vehicle and dragged it out of the shed, Jeff popped the hood. It was clean there, too. The rubber was shot, but all the metal was in good shape. He gave the gentleman farmer a check for fifteen hundred with no qualms, loaded the car, and headed back toward town. So far Mike had proved to be a quiet, alert helper. He was at the right place at the right time, had very little to say, and obeyed any instructions quickly and without argument or even comment. He obviously knew cars and engines from the few things he’d said as they’d looked it over. Jeff agreed with the other man’s assessment of the ‘Cuda and appreciated the fact Mike had noted a couple of minor things he’d missed. Mike kept his own counsel on the drive back to town, pitched in to unload the ‘Cuda and then waited to see what needed to be done next. “I need to get the office open again until five,” Jeff explained. “Do you have a driver’s license?” Mike nodded. “Sure. I wouldn’t have started off across country without one.” “How about a CDL? Ever handle a slider or a tow truck?” The other man shrugged. “Yeah. It’s been a while, but I’ve done it.” “Do you want to go get your car? Can you handle it on your own?” Mike shot Jeff a quizzical glance. “You’re willing to trust a jailbird with your truck? Isn’t that kind of risky?” Jeff laughed. “Hell, it’s got a GPS unit in it. I can track wherever it goes. If you aren’t back by dark I could put out an all points and the cops would be looking for it. That’d be pretty stupid on your part.” “You’ve got me there.” When Mike grinned, the softening expression totally changed his face. Cleaned up he could be one good looking guy. He shrugged. “Yeah, I can get the Mustang. Should be back in an hour or a little more if I can find my way back on those damn farm roads to where I left it. And thanks. I will feel better to know its safe here with me.” “Get gone. I’ve got work to do. And when you get back, you will, too.”