Pico Fuentes, proprietor of Pico’s Auto Repair & Body Shop, is pissed off big-time. He heaves a repair manual into the wall on the other side of the garage, barely missing the passion-red Mazda in the repair bay.
Pico is sixty-five and feeling every day of it. He’s old enough to remember when cars were really cars, with vent windows and ashtrays and hood ornaments… and carburetors. He really misses carburetors. Now it’s all electronic fuel injection, oxygen sensors, and on-board diagnostic protocols. He’s got the hood open on a 2006 Dodge Dakota and he might as well be staring into the goddamn space shuttle.
The last thing he needs right now is visitors. But he’s about to get some.
Oh, no. Please. Not again. They’re back. And now with a third one?
“Pico, my man! ?Qué pasa?” calls Luke.
“We’re here to check on the patient!” says Timo.
Today, for the first time, Bron tags along. It’s his first visit to Pico’s since he rolled into town with Grandpa and Gonzalo two weeks ago. Seems like about two light-years.
As Bron steps into the garage with his buddies, he gets smacked with the odors of grease and oil and, to be blunt… of Pico. The temperature in the shop is pushing ninety, and those overalls haven’t seen the inside of a washing machine in a while. Pico is a big guy with a burly beard. Reminds Bron of a pre-diet Zac Brown. But a lot less cuddly.
“See for yourself,” says Pico with a snarl. He waves a meaty hand toward the drive train and rear differential on the floor.
“Your toy isn’t gonna fix itself. I still need parts. And the boys over in Miyoshi are taking their sweet time.”
“Almost a month now, Pico! How much longer?” asks Timo.
Pico shrugs. “Talk to Tojo.”
Luke walks over to the Miata and runs his hands soothingly over the hood. “Patience, baby, patience…”
“You boys can stroke your sweetheart for as long as you want,” says Pico, “but I got an emergency case here.” He opens the door to the Dakota and turns the ignition switch. A sad little click comes from the engine compartment.
“Damn it!”
Pico grabs a hand-held engine analyzer off his worktable and leans under the steering column to find the data port. With his bulk, it’s not a pretty sight. He’s breathing hard. Sweating hard. He extracts himself from the cab with a mighty heave, grunting like a walrus. He stares at the readout and tugs at his beard like he’s trying to pull it off.
“This code makes no goddamn sense!”
Bron is transfixed by the analyzer. His brain is alive and firing. This is the first piece of true twenty-first century technology he’s seen in two weeks. He feels compelled to touch it.
“Mind if I take a look?” he blurts out.
Pico gives the pale gringo a dubious stare. “You know trucks, amigo?”
“I know electronics… a bit.”
With a suspicious look, Pico hands over the greasy device. Bron takes the unit eagerly and presses a few buttons. He walks to the front of the truck and instinctively grabs a socket wrench. He hesitates, then nods toward the engine.
“Do you mind?” he asks.
“Go nuts,” Pico says, “but if you fry anything, it’s your ass.”
Bron leans over the engine compartment. With a deft touch he unbolts a black plastic dust cover, exposing three huge plastic connectors, each with a thick bundle of multicolored wires. Bron pops the connectors free one at a time.
He studies the wiring pattern, his mind clicking a million miles an hour. He follows a red wire as thin as a blood vessel. He pulls a pen out of his pocket and probes gently into a tiny socket. He plugs the wiring connectors back in with three satisfying snaps. He turns his head to the side and calls to Pico.
“Try it now.”
Pico reaches inside the cab and cranks the ignition key. The engine fires up. Luke and Timo lean back on the Miata and applaud.
“Bad connection in the PCU,” Bron says. “The analyzers don’t always pick it up.” He closes the hood. “My name’s Tyler, by the way.”
“Drinking buddy of ours,” says Timo, proudly.
“Well, I say he’s a goddamn wizard,” says Pico. He looks at Bron. “Appreciate the help.”
Luke gives the Miata one last pat. “Okay. Show’s over. Let’s get a beer.” Bron, Luke, and Timo head out of the garage. “Put a rush on those parts, okay, Pico?”
“Like I told you—I already did.”
“Then maybe put a rush on the rush.”
“Maybe next time, buy American,” says Pico. Then, “Hey… Tyler.” Bron stops and turns.
“You looking for a job?” Pico wipes his hands with a greasy rag. “I could use somebody who knows these goddamn computers. The pay sucks and so do the hours.”
Tyler starts to laugh—but wait a minute. He now owes Grandpa about six hundred bucks for lodging, not counting the complementary breakfasts. He’s been letting Luke and Timo pay for sandwiches and beer, along with depleting their supply of tequila and margarita mix.
This is crazy, Bron thinks. I’ve never worked for anybody in my life. Never even applied for a job.
But the thing is… he actually needs the money. He can’t believe what he’s saying until he actually hears the words come out of his mouth: “Absolutely. When do I start?”
Chapter 14
The next night
Tyler peels off his overalls and hangs them on a hook behind the office door. He scrubs as much of the grease off his hands and forearms as he can in the utility sink and heads out of the garage. He presses the button of the heavy overhead door so that it closes behind him, leaving a solitary work light casting a dim glow over tool chests and the still-dismantled Miata.
One oxygen sensor replacement. Two power-train control module adjustments. And three old-fashioned oil changes. Not a bad day’s effort. And it actually felt good to work with his hand instead of his head for a change.
It’s eight o’clock. The Christmas lights are on up and down the street, but Bron heads for the brightest light around—the neon sign over the Desert Diner, smack in the middle of town. His stomach is growling—and with a cash advance from Pico on his eleven-dollars-an-hour wages, the billionaire can finally pay for his own dinner.
The diner is small—about the length of a train car, with a row of booths along the window side and a counter facing the kitchen. Nothing here has been updated since the 1950s, except the jukebox in the far corner, which was updated a couple of decades later. Mixed in with the sound of clanking plates and the buzz of conversation, Bron can make out the bouncy chorus of “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.”
The place is packed. In fact, it looks like just about everybody in town is here. The handwritten sign up front reads, PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF. WE’LL FIND YOU EVENTUALLY. Bron takes a small table just inside the door, which gives him a view down the entire length of the place.
Maria the bank teller is moonlighting—waiting tables down at the other end. Her bank boss is at one of the counter stools, leaning over a bowl of chili. Grandpa is holding court with a posse of other guys in their seventies. Lots of laughing. Not many teeth. Grandpa sees Bron and tips his beer. Bron nods and raises his water glass, which is the only thing on his table at the moment.
Just as he turns to see if there’s anybody around to help him out, a waitress spins out of the kitchen, grabs a laminated menu, and plops it in front of him. She’s moving so fast she’s a blur in his peripheral view. But even so, Bron can tell she’s somebody he’s never seen before.
“Thanks,” he says, “I was just about to—”
“Order up!” The cook yells from the smoky kitchen as he pushes two heaping plates onto the pass. Now the jumpy waitress is torn: pick up the waiting food or take Bron’s order. She glances at the sweaty cook, who wears a red bandana across his forehead like a pirate. He gives her a death stare.
No contest.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says to Bron. “Be right back, I promise!” She’s calling over her shoulder as she heads for the waiting food, and in one blink, Bron takes a mental snapshot so vivid he could describe her to a police sketch artist.