Anthony was startled by her echoing scream and was momentarily stunned when she yelled over his head toward the fence. He turned around to where she was shouting and realized the privacy fence had a hidden door between the properties. It was now open, and several partygoers had gathered and were gawking at them.
“Bring him over here so we can get a better look at him!” came a woman’s voice Anthony recognized, but knew better than to acknowledge. “Does he have a feather in his hair? I can’t see from here.”
Anthony heard a man reply dryly, “You can go to the Seminole reservation any time you want and get an eyeful, Fran.”
To which Fran replied with disgust, “Ugh! I wouldn’t be caught dead near that filthy place.”
Anthony had heard enough. He started walking. Ignoring the shouts and comments from behind him, he didn’t even stop to tell his coworkers that he was done. For good. He would hitch to where he had his few belongings stashed and make his way up to Fort Lauderdale. He’d find other work, and maybe since the Seminole reservation was closer to Fort Lauderdale than it was to Miami, he wouldn’t be such a novelty. The Miami elite had ignorant, preconceived racist opinions. This wasn’t the first time he’d come under their scrutiny, but he would make certain it was the last.
He wandered the streets of Fort Lauderdale for two days before he made the decision that as much as he enjoyed the solitude of landscaping, he wasn’t making enough money in Miami to finance another move. Fort Lauderdale would not be any better. He would have to use his knowledge of car parts. There was good money to be made in parts—the right auto parts.
Anthony scouted on foot for three more days before he came across a garage he thought was worthy of the expensive parts he could supply. When he noticed the types of vehicles they specialized in at Lawrence’s Auto Repairs, he decided on a plan. The first thing he did was break into their garage and steal some tools since he didn’t have any of his own. He then made his way to the fanciest dealership in town. They had one night security guard, and Anthony observed the man’s routine for a couple days before he took action. While the guard took his two-hour break in front of the television in the customer waiting area, Anthony quietly went to work. It was so easy it was almost ridiculous.
His bag heavy with expensive stolen parts and tools, he headed back toward Lawrence’s Auto Repairs. He was certain they would buy the parts, and hoped they wouldn’t be too hard on him for “borrowing” their tools. It was five o'clock in the morning and he was feeling chilled, despite the balmy weather. He needed to warm up before the garage opened and he could approach them with his goods. But where?
He finally arrived at Lawrence’s and stood at a distance, observing. He laid his bag down on the ground and wrapped his arms tightly around himself, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. It was then that he noticed something. The shop was closed, but there were cars out front. It had to be about six o’clock by now. He could guess that some were left by clients who had dropped them off either last night or first thing this morning. Cars that would probably have keys hidden under the mat or in the visor.
The third car he tried opened right up and his assumption paid off—he easily found the hidden keys in the overhead visor. Tossing his bag on the passenger seat, he climbed in, started it and turned on the heater. He planned to sit there for a few minutes and let the warmth seep in. The sun would soon be up to burn off the cool, damp air and he could go back to watching from across the street and figure out who he might need to approach with his wares.
Suddenly the car door swung open, and he was roughly grabbed by his shirt and ripped from the car. He started to stumble but quickly caught himself as he was thrown against the hood and held there face down by someone he couldn’t see. The sun was bright, and the air had warmed up. He must’ve fallen asleep waiting in the car.
“Looks like we got us a squatter, Red,” he heard a man say. The same man that was keeping him pinned to the hood. It was hot from the motor running, and his cheek was starting to burn.
“Let him up, but don’t let him go,” answered another voice.
He was pulled to standing and spun around to face who could only be Red. He was a tall, imposing man, rough in appearance. He was wearing a black T-shirt and had tattoos covering both arms. Anthony focused on something red that was sprouting out just above his collar. It looked like a tattoo of a pointy red stick. He would later learn that it was a devil and the stick was its tail creeping its way up Red's neck.
Red eyed him up and down, then reached into the car and across the driver’s seat.
“Whatever he has it’s heavy,” he stated as he retrieved Anthony’s bag from the passenger side.
He reached in and pulled out a part. He held it up and looked it over. Then he glared at Anthony and asked in an even but menacing voice, “Did you steal this from me?”
Trying not to show any fear, Anthony answered him honestly, “Only if you own the Mercedes dealership down on Las Olas Boulevard.”
Red burst out laughing. “Good thing for you I don’t,” he told him. “What else you got in here?” he asked, and before Anthony could answer him, Red dumped the contents of the bag on the ground.
He squatted and started looking more closely at the parts. He picked up one of the tools and, noticing the markings, stood and brought it dangerously close to Anthony’s face. “This is from my garage.”
“I only borrowed it,” was Anthony’s immediate and truthful reply. “I don’t have any tools of my own. I was going to ask if you had better ones you might loan me.”
Red believed him because if the boy intended to keep the tools, he wouldn’t have brought them back with the parts he wanted to fence.
“It was a stupid move, and you could’ve gotten me in trouble,” Red reprimanded him.
Anthony looked at him questioningly.
“My tools are all marked. If you left one by accident at the dealership, they’d eventually trace the theft back to me. You didn’t leave one of my tools there, did you, boy?” he asked as he got too close to Anthony’s face. His breath reeked of cigarettes and coffee.
“No. They’re all accounted for. I have a system. I know how many tools I go in with and how many I leave with.”
Red stood back and didn’t say anything, but nodded his head slowly.
“Where you from, kid? You live on the reservation?” he asked, slapping the tool against his open palm.
“No, sir.”
“Let me guess. No family. Runaway? Living on the streets?”
What did he have to lose? “Yes,” and before Red could pry further, “from Oklahoma.”
“Want a job?” Red asked.
When Anthony didn’t answer right away, he added, “You have a serious talent. One that could prove to be quite lucrative for me. I’ll give you a fair wage and a place to stay.”
The man who’d been clutching Anthony’s arm let him go and stepped back.
Anthony nodded, never breaking eye contact. “Yeah, I’ll work for you. I could use a place to stay.”
Red addressed the other man. “He can stay with Greg upstairs. Make sure he gets unmarked tools. Get him set up.”