Outside Calder Auto

The wrench slid out from under the car just as Rafe Calder reached for it. A dusty black sneaker came down on top of it.

Flat on his back beneath the lift, Rafe found himself staring straight at the shoe, his hand suspended inches from the tool. The old fan in the garage rattled loudly, sending the work orders on the reception desk fluttering. The air smelled of motor oil, rubber, and sun-baked metal. Outside, sunlight poured through the half-open roll-up door and cut a blinding white strip across the concrete floor.

“Move your foot.”

The man above him did not move.

“I’m talking to you, Calder.”

Rafe recognized the voice and drew his hand back. He braced a palm against the floor, slid out from beneath the car, and rose, brushing dust from his work pants as he did. The visitor was Mason Pike, who had spent years drifting around the neighborhood and made his money collecting debts and handling problems whose origins were better left unexplained. Rafe had seen the man behind him a few times, though he had never bothered to remember his name.

Mason kept his foot on the wrench and looked down at him. “You don’t even say hello anymore?”

“You’re standing on my stuff.”

“You used to have a worse temper.”

“I’m busy now.” Rafe glanced toward his feet. “Move.”

Mason smiled and stepped off the wrench. Rafe bent to retrieve it, returned it to the tool cart, then picked up a rag and wiped his hands. “If your car’s broken, leave the keys. I’ve got three ahead of you. If it isn’t, stop blocking the door.”

The back of the garage went abruptly quiet.

A nineteen-year-old named Eli stood beside the tire rack. He had been apprenticing there for less than a year and was normally the loudest person in the shop, capable of talking through an entire brake job. Today, he had not touched a tool. He was staring at Mason.

Rafe followed his gaze and understood.

Mason noticed Eli too. “Where’s your brother?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

“Because I really don’t know where he went.”

Mason headed farther inside. “Then tell your mother to answer her phone. Your brother owes me thirty-eight hundred. Just because he ran doesn’t mean the money disappeared with him.”

Eli’s expression darkened. “Leave my mom alone.”

“You going to pay for him?”

“Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?”

“That’s your family’s problem.”

Rafe tossed the rag back onto the tool cart. “Mason.”

The man stopped and turned.

“Say what you came to say at the door, then leave. He has work to do.”

“This has nothing to do with you.”

“He’s in my shop.”

Mason surveyed the place. Paint peeled from the walls. An old crack ran across the office’s glass door. The reception desk had been salvaged from a restaurant that went out of business years ago, and even the CALDER AUTO sign outside had faded beneath the sun.

Once he had taken it all in, Mason gave a short laugh. “You’ve owned a garage for a few years and now you think you’re some respectable businessman?”

Rafe let the jab pass and turned back to the parts he had removed earlier.

He had heard that kind of remark plenty of times.

Calder Auto had been open for six years. It opened at eight thirty, closed on Sundays, repaired engines, replaced brakes, did bodywork, and took in the old cars that locals refused to bring to a dealership because of the price. The place was modest, the only thing Rafe had taken seriously in years. People who knew him from before still appeared now and then, bringing up things he had long since lost interest in—as though putting on work clothes and filing taxes had somehow turned his past into a joke.

Mason was not finished.

“You never used to stick your nose into other people’s business.”

Rafe looked down as he arranged his tools. “Still don’t care to. Take it outside and I won’t say a word.”

“What if he won’t come outside?”

“Then you’re not having that conversation today.”

The air in the garage went cold.

Mason stared at him, then stepped around him. Eli backed away, his shoulder striking the tire rack. The top tire wobbled. A second later, Mason had a fist twisted in the front of Eli’s work shirt and was yanking him forward.

“Your brother can hide as long as he wants. Tell him when you get home that I—”

A hand locked around his wrist.

Rafe stood beside him, his voice as even as before. “Let go.”

Mason turned his head. “You really want to get involved?”

“I said let go.”

“People around here kept telling me you’d changed. I didn’t believe them.” Mason’s mouth twisted. “Now you spend every day fixing cars and looking after a bunch of kids. You think that makes you clean?”

Rafe regarded him without any visible change in expression. “You done?”

“Not yet.”

“Then go finish outside.”

Mason tore his arm free. “Stop giving me orders.”

Rafe tipped his chin toward Eli. “Go to the back.”

The young man hesitated. “Boss—”

“Go.”

Eli knew he would be no help if he stayed, so he retreated toward the tool room. The garage’s other two employees had also stopped working, but neither came closer. They had been there long enough to know how determined Rafe usually was to avoid trouble. They also knew that once someone dragged trouble to his feet, trying to intervene rarely accomplished much.

Mason stepped forward. “You think you can still fight?”

Rafe glanced at the car raised beside them. “I have a car due this afternoon. If you want to make a scene, do it outside.”

“Afraid I’ll break something?”

“Afraid you can’t afford to replace it.”

The smile vanished from Mason’s face. His fist came at Rafe without warning. Rafe only tilted his head.

The punch skimmed past the tip of his nose, missing his face by almost nothing. As Mason’s momentum carried him forward, Rafe shifted his left foot half a step to the side. His right hand traveled only a few inches before driving into Mason’s ribs.

Mason sucked in a breath and folded slightly around the blow.

Rafe did not pursue him. He settled back into place. “Enough.”

“Fuck you.”

The second punch came harder than the first.

Rafe’s expression did not change. His eyes remained on Mason’s shoulders and chest. The moment Mason’s right shoulder moved, Rafe was already slipping to the side. As the fist cut through empty air, Rafe fired into the opening beside Mason’s jaw. The clean impact knocked Mason sideways, his lower back slamming into the tool cabinet.

The cabinet door shuddered. A set of freshly organized sockets spilled across the floor.

Rafe looked down. His expression soured.

“I bought that set last month.”

The man who had come with Mason charged him.

Rafe heard rubber scrape against concrete. He turned, knocked aside the reaching hand, and drove his shoulder forward in the same motion. The man stumbled back half a step, recovered, and threw a punch. Rafe slipped it and planted a fist in his stomach. When the man doubled over, Rafe stopped instead of hitting him again.

“Take him with you.”

The man looked up with one arm wrapped around his abdomen. He no longer seemed especially interested in continuing.

Mason, however, pushed himself upright beside the cabinet and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. His face had gone hard. “Haven’t seen you in years, and you’re still the same bastard.”

“At least I issue receipts now.”

Someone in the garage failed to hold back a laugh.

Mason shot a glare in that direction. Rafe had already taken two steps toward the door, nudging a long wrench out of the way with the toe of his boot. “Last time. Get out.”

People had begun watching from the street. The owner of the hardware store next door stood in his doorway drinking water, and a passing car on the opposite side of the road slowed deliberately. Plenty of people in the neighborhood knew Rafe. More than a few had seen him fight before. Not one of them came over to break it up.

By the time Mason rushed him again, he had lost all sense of rhythm. Rafe slipped the first punch and turned with Mason’s movement. The second grazed his ear. He used the opening to drive a fist into Mason’s stomach, and when Mason instinctively tightened around the blow, Rafe’s left hand was already landing against the side of his face.

Mason’s footwork fell apart. He stumbled backward. Rafe followed by only one step.

Mason had barely begun to raise his hands when a right hand shot straight through the center and cracked into his cheek. His foot landed awkwardly, and he toppled through the open roll-up door. His back hit first, then his shoulder struck the asphalt. He skidded a short distance before stopping.

Rafe stood at the entrance and shook out his hand. His knuckles felt warm. Other than that, he felt nothing.

“Told you to take it outside.”

Mason lay sprawled on the concrete until his eyes fluttered open. The first thing he saw was a pair of low black heels.

They were remarkably clean against a street coated in dust, tire marks, and grease. His gaze traveled upward to the woman standing beside him. She wore dark gray trousers and a white blouse, with a light jacket over it. A phone rested in one hand, car keys in the other.

The woman looked down at him. They regarded each other in silence.

She seemed to realize that she was standing beside his head and shifted one step away. “Sorry.”

Mason’s face darkened further. Rafe had been flexing his fingers. He almost smiled.

The woman looked up in time to catch it.

She appeared to be around thirty, her hair gathered simply at the back of her head. Her face held none of the excitement or nerves common among people watching a street fight. She had not taken out her phone to record it, either. From beginning to end, she had stood quietly at the curb, as if observing something for work.

Rafe gave her another look, then turned back into the shop. “Eli, pick up the sockets. If one’s missing, it comes out of your pay.”

“I’m not the one who knocked them down.”

“Then ask Mason to reimburse you.”

Eli glanced at the man still sitting in the road, then crouched to gather the tools. “Never mind.”

The other two men returned to work as well, and the garage soon recovered its usual noise. The air compressor started up again. Metal clanged somewhere in the back, as if the last few minutes had been no more than a minor interruption to the workday.

Rafe was crouched beside the cabinet, putting things in order, when he heard someone approach. He looked up. The woman from outside stood just beyond the roll-up door.

“Car trouble?”

“No.”

“Then who are you looking for?”

“You, for the moment.”

The socket in Rafe’s hand went still. He rose and glanced outside, making sure no unfamiliar car was parked near the entrance. “If this is about that guy, you’ve got the wrong place.”

“I don’t know him.”

“That makes this even stranger.” He wiped his hands on the rag and studied her face. “How long were you watching?”

“Long enough.”

“Enjoy the show?”

She took her time answering.

Her gaze traveled from his shoulder to his arm before settling on his right hand. Rafe knew what it looked like when someone was sizing him up, but he had rarely been examined this way. She seemed interested in the strangest details. She even spent a few seconds studying the way he stood.

He glanced down at his work clothes. “Something on me?”

“How much do you weigh?” she asked.

Rafe thought he had misheard her. “What?”

“Your weight. An estimate is fine.”

Behind him, Eli slowly raised his head from the tools.

Rafe held her gaze. “You watch a man fight outside his garage, then walk over and ask what he weighs?”

“At the moment, that’s what I’d most like to know.”

“You sell insurance?”

“I work in sports.”

“What kind of sport weighs people outside an auto shop?”

The question seemed to amuse her. The corner of her mouth lifted slightly. “So how much?”

Rafe leaned against the cabinet, beginning to find the whole thing funny. “Around one eighty-five. Depends how I’ve been eating.”