Other than my father, Jimmy, and FBI Director Carlson, Diane and Dex are the only ones I’ve considered sharing my secret with. I still might. It depends on Leonardo.
Collecting the statewide printout of Saturn L-series sedans from the printer, we next tackle the mystery truck from Redding … and immediately derail. “It’s just too far away and too poor-quality,” Dex says. The most he can pull from the image is that the truck is a standard-cab, and there’s a slight reflection on the front fender that might—might—be a badge, but fender badges on trucks are so common that it only narrows the search by half.
“Here’s one thing,” Dex adds, pointing to an image of the truck as it almost exits the screen. “See that hint of red?” I follow his finger to the upper back edge of the cab, just above the rear window.
“Third brake light,” I say. “Like on the Saturn.”
“Exactly, and those weren’t introduced into the U.S. until 1986; that means your suspect truck is ’86 or newer.”
I give him a defeated smile. “That’s ninety-eight percent of the trucks on the road.”
“Oh, less than that if you factor in the standard cab and the fender badge,” Dex replies in a chipper voice, “but, yes, you’re still looking at thousands of trucks, perhaps tens of thousands, depending on the location and size of your search area.”
“Tens of thousands, is that all?” I say sarcastically. “No problem. You’ve been a big help, Dex.”
He just grins.
*
Hangar 7 is a regular hive of buzzing activity when I return. Les and Marty are tinkering with Betsy … which is a little disconcerting considering neither of them are mechanics and they have the left engine cover cracked open. Marty’s poking around inside with a screwdriver as Les looks on.
I try not to look or listen as I pass. The less I know, the better.
Jimmy’s in the break room plopped down on the couch next to his wife, Jane, looking through some catalogs and magazines. Their son, six-year-old Pete, is by himself at the foosball table on the hangar floor. He’s wearing a blue hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head so far you can barely see his eyes.
The conversation in the break room smells like a remodel. Jane’s been talking about a makeover on their kitchen for the last year and recently told Jimmy that she’s tired of waiting. Worse, she’s under the impression that I’m going to help—so I make a beeline for the foosball table instead.
“Hey, Petey,” I say, eyeing the rows of miniature plastic soccer players. “You want to give your Uncle Steps a foosball thrashing?” His face is in shadow, but I see the eager smile. “Hey, what’s with the hood, buddy?” His smile turns instantly to grimace as he hesitates, then walks up close to me. Looking around quickly, he pulls the hood back a few inches, just enough for me to see that his thick curly hair is gone. Not gone as in shortened, but gone as in nearly bald; the kid’s got barely a quarter inch of hair left, just fuzz. My eyes go big and I give him a sympathetic look as he pulls the hood back in place.
“What happened, big guy? You get some gum in your hair or something?”
He corkscrews his mouth and says in his husky little voice, “We went to the barber shop and I got to pick which piece I wanted to go on the hair cutter.” He looks up at me with big eyes. “I didn’t know the red one makes you bald.”
Trying not to smile, I tell him, “You look very handsome. A bald head is the sign of a tough man, a strong man, someone not afraid to be who he is.” I poke him softly in the belly. “But not every bald man is tough and handsome.” I study him for a moment. “I’d be careful if I were you, Petey. The girls are gonna want to run their hands all over your head.”
“Eeewww!”
“Give it a couple years; you might not mind it so much.”
We play two rounds of foosball, with Petey winning both rounds. Jimmy doesn’t like it when I let him win. He says that losing is a character-builder and that when Petey finally does win a game, he’ll know it was a real win.
Ppppfth! Fathers. What do they know?
Besides, I’m his Uncle Steps—even if we’re not technically related. I’m supposed to spoil him, teach him how to throw knives and juggle kittens, jack him up on sugar, and send him home as a six-year-old nightmare incarnate.
That’s what uncles do.
When I poke my head into the break room, Jane is holding up two color samples, one of which Jimmy is less than happy with, comparing it to the inside of a baby’s tainted diaper. Catalogs are spread out over the coffee table: cabinets, countertops, sinks, tile, paint, faucets, appliances, pretty much anything you’d need if you wanted to build a kitchen from scratch.
Jimmy is holding three separate catalogs uncomfortably, like a new father holding an infant. His shoulders are slumped and he has an exhausted look on his face, but his eyes suddenly light up when he sees me. “Steps!” he says with surprising enthusiasm. “You’re back … finally. Look, honey,” he says to Jane, “Steps is here. Oh, that means we’ve got to get back to work.”
“Hi, Steps,” Jane says, throwing me a smile and shaking her head patiently as Jimmy dumps the catalogs on the table and makes for the door. “So we’ve settled on a thirteen-by-thirteen porcelain tile called Mountain Slate Iron,” she tells me. “It’s a darker tile with stone texture and coloring; very pretty.”
“Sounds nice,” I say absently, trying to be polite.
Jane stares at me a moment. “You’ve forgotten already, haven’t you?”
“Forgotten what?” This can’t be good.
“Last Christmas; you said you’d be happy to help with the makeover. We need someone with experience.”
Crap.
“That was probably the Baileys Irish Cream talking,” I say, screwing on a grin. “Besides, my tiling experience amounts to one hall closet and half a bathroom.”
“Did any of the tiles crack?”
“No.” Not yet.