Sam wasn’t sure whether he liked this kid or not. He smiled an awful lot, but the smile seemed to belong to an inside joke, which was strange considering it was only the two of them here and Sam didn’t get the joke. “I don’t know,” Sam said. “Go call the cop who called me and ask him—”
“I don’t think we should call the cops,” the kid said. “I think we should have a drink and talk. Because you made a mistake, Mr. Jones. You shouldn’t have given that phone away to anyone who didn’t have a badge. She had to have been aware of the trouble she was getting you into, and you’re telling me she didn’t warn you?”
“Shit, no!” Sam was uneasy now, thinking of the number of phones he’d entrusted to the blond gal.
The kid made a disappointed sound and shook his head. “I know her type, all friendly talk, winking at you and then somehow leaving with property she doesn’t have any right to, and when the cops show — and they will — the cops will have heard an entirely different story than the one you were told. There’ll be petty charges, maybe, but what’s petty when it’s your own life and your business?”
Shit, shit, shit, Sam thought. Sam did not want to appear in court, and he said as much now.
The kid nodded sympathetically and said, “I think we can keep it from going that way.”
“You can? What’re you, my Boy Scout representative?”
The kid smiled. “You know, that’s not far off, really. I was raised to know what to do in the woods, that’s for sure. I can still start a fire in the rain.”
“All due respect, but I wouldn’t mind seeing your boss. Just to talk to somebody at the top, you know?”
“I’ve been involved in my father’s business since I was very young,” the kid said. “It’s a tricky line of work, and training starts early. I worked with my father, worked with my uncle. I know I look young, sir, but I assure you I know how to handle a situation like this.”
Sam thought he’d probably just heard gospel. Immature and lazy as the kid looked, he talked a mighty fine game, said the right things and said them firmly. And, hell, he was a worker. That mattered. Most kids these days didn’t show any ambition at all.
“More I listen to you, and the more I think on it, you’re right, it could get pretty bad,” Sam said. “Got one dead and one with no more brain activity than a head of lettuce, and you just know there’s going to be lawsuits coming out of that. Don’t matter that the Mexican hit them, he ain’t got no money, so they’ll find—”
“The Mexican—” the kid began, and Sam interrupted hastily.
“I don’t want you thinking I’m racist or nothing, it’s just, my understanding was that he was some kind of Mexican.”
“Correct,” the kid said with the barest hint of a smile, most of it lost to the shadows his black baseball cap cast over his face. “He was indeed some kind of Mexican, and now he’s the dead kind. He was murdered outside of Boston, I’m told.”
Sam gaped. Murdered. That was not a word Savage Sam wanted to hear in connection to any of the cars he towed, even when they were for the police. Murder cases were unholy messes. His sister-in-law over in York County had to serve on the jury of a murder trial once, and it lasted most of a month. Now, she did say the lunches were pretty decent, and the case was interesting, kind of like TV, but Sam had no desire to get wrapped up with anything that could get him on the witness stand. Once he got to explaining those phones...
“It’ll be a damned turkey shoot,” he grumbled aloud. “I shouldn’t have given the phones to that gal. If she was a cop, maybe. But she promised she’d get them to the police. That ain’t gonna sound real good when I say it, though, is it?”
The kid gave him a sympathetic look and didn’t answer. Sam lifted the PBR to his lips and then remembered it was already empty.
“What if I could get them back for you?” the kid asked. He’d walked right up to the front porch steps now. Just a child, and yet he talked with such authority that Sam might’ve believed he was a cop. “Once I understand the details of the situation, I can make sure that your property is returned and that the woman who pulled this fast one on you won’t bother you anymore. By the end, she’ll be more afraid of the police than you will. As she should be.”
“Hell, yes, as she should be,” Sam said, beginning to think it was a damned good thing that this kid had pulled in when he did. Just ten minutes later, and Sam would’ve been settled at his booth down at the store, a couple pieces of old pizza on paper plates in front of him.
“Let’s have a drink,” the kid said, “and you can talk me through it. Unless, of course, you don’t drink on the job?”
Sam answered with a snort and crushed the empty PBR can beneath his dusty work boot. “I expect I can get a couple fingers of that sippin’ whiskey down just fine.”
The kid grinned. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Sam turned to the door. The keys were still in the lock. He took them out and then swung the door open and held it so the kid could pass through.
“A few more minutes and I’d have missed you,” he said. “Now I’ve got help and whiskey.”
“Lucky break.”
“So which side of the show are you working for? The girl’s family or the dead Mexican fella’s? Or the first dead guy’s? Shit, almost forgot about him. Lot of death around that wreck.”
“There sure was,” the kid said. “Say, do you have any glasses?”
Sam got so distracted by searching for clean glasses that he forgot the kid hadn’t answered the question about who he was working for. He found glasses and sat down behind the desk. The old chair wheezed beneath him, and dust rose, but the cushions were crushed down to the shape of his frame now, still plenty comfortable. Customized, you might say.
“There you go,” he said, sliding the glasses across the desk. The kid poured him a nice healthy shot, three fingers, maybe four. Sam almost told him to stop, but what the hell. He didn’t want to come across as a doddering old-timer who couldn’t handle his liquor.
The kid sat back and capped the bottle. Sam frowned. “Ain’t gonna have any?”
“Drinking on the job is high-risk, according to my father.”
“Well, hell, now I feel like you’re getting me drunk just to get me talkin’,” Sam said, and he was only half joking.
The kid must’ve seen that because he said, “Tell you what — I’d do a beer if you’ve got any more of those around.”
“Sure.” Sam fetched him a tallboy can of PBR, and the kid drank this without hesitation, which put Sam at ease.
The whiskey went down with a smooth burn and a faint tang. Sam pulled the bottle closer and tilted it one way and his head the other so they aligned in a fashion that allowed him to read without his bifocals.
“Gentleman Jack,” he said. “Not bad, but what was wrong with just the good old stuff? Why’s it always gotta be changing?”
The kid bowed his head and said, “Ah, that’s a sentimental thing, really. My father’s name was Jack. He was a gentleman too. A charmer, sir. People who made it through a whole day or a whole night with him, they always loved him.”
Now, this was something Savage Sam Jones could embrace, a kid who cared about his father. For all the bullshit you heard about these kids and their cell phone addictions and electric cigarettes and liberal notions, it was reassuring to know there were still some good ones.
“That’s real nice,” Sam said, and that’s when it hit him — the kid had said his father’s name was Jack. “Oh, man. He’s gone, isn’t he?”
The kid nodded.
“I’m truly sorry to hear it. I lost my old man too young too. What happened to yours?”