This was more information than I needed. He wasn't just making small-talk, he was deliberately making me nervous. He looked at the paint under his fingernail, then wiped it against the side of his pants. "Can I ask your name?"
I told him.
"This your car, Mr. Sieber?"
"Nope."
The response seemed to surprise him. "Mind telling me whose car it is?" he asked, his right hand slipping just a little closer to his holstered weapon.
"Technically, no one's. My brother-in-law loaned it to me. He owns a used-car dealership in Cedar Hill, Ohio." After that it was just a matter of showing him my license, giving him Perry's address and phone number, and waiting while he ran a check on the information.
Once he confirmed that I wasn't part of some tri-state car-theft ring he came back and returned my license. "It all checks out, which I'm sure comes as a big surprise to you. Sorry for the inconvenience, but we gotta be careful. There've been a lot of car thefts in the last week or so. A couple of folks were even bashed in the head and pulled from their cars at stoplights. So we kind of want these fellahs real bad."
"I understand." I shoved my wallet back into my pocket. "I don't suppose there's any way you could give me a lift to the nearest service station…?"
"Afraid not. Unless it's a life-or-death emergency, it's against regulations. I already got 'hold of Cletus over at the truck stop—a better mechanic you won't find. He'll be along with the tow truck in about forty minutes and you can ride back with him. He'll get you fixed up, but I gotta warn you—he'll talk your ear off."
"If he gives me a ride and can fix this heap, he can sing arias from La Traviata in Esperanto for all I care."
The trooper grinned. "Hey, you know opera? My wife's a big opera fan. I bought her season tickets last Christmas. 'Course that means I have to go with her, but I'm getting to not mind it as much as I thought I would. Some of them singers can hit notes that'll shatter your bridgework. Here," he said, handing me an ice-cold can of Coke and small plastic bag filled with carrot sticks. "We keep a cooler of sodas and snacks and stuff in the back of the cruiser in case we come across folks like yourself. I'd've brought you some water, but we're fresh out. Anyway, it seemed to me like you could use some refreshment, so there you go. I hope Cletus can get you fixed up all right. Try to enjoy what you can of the day."
"Thank you."
He started back toward his cruiser. "Don't you worry none about being stuck out here, Mr. Sieber. If Cletus says he'll be here in forty minutes, he'll be here in forty minutes."
He was there in twenty-five. While I stood waiting, the twin butter dishes cruised by a second time; once again the little girl smiled at me and waved, and I gave her the same in return. Her folks probably took a wrong exit and had to get turned around. I felt nothing but sympathy for them. I noticed this time that the Airstream's windows were taped over from the inside; that seemed an odd way to keep out sunlight. Maybe they'd lost their blinds. Maybe the windows had been cracked by rocks shooting out from under the tires of passing semis. Maybe I should watch that my ass didn't wander into oncoming traffic while I wondered about other peoples' trailer windows.
I'd just finished the last of the Coke and carrot sticks when Cletus pulled up in his rig. "Mark, I take it?" he called out through the window.
"Cletus?" Using first names like we were old friends.
"Appears we're all in our places with bright shiny faces, then." He climbed out and handed me a brown paper bag; inside was a ham and cheese sandwich, a brownie, and another can of Coke. "I had Muriel make this up for you. My garage is attached to the truck stop restaurant. Lorenzo said you'd been out here a while. Figured you'd be a bit hungry."
"Thanks," I said. "Who's Lorenzo?"
"Murphy. The trooper who talked to you. And, yes, that is his real name, don't ask me why, I wasn't privy to the discussion his parents had prior to saddling him with it. The food's free of charge, in case you were wondering. Figure folks stuck by the side of the road got enough headaches without their stomach giving them three different kinds of holy hell."
"I appreciate it."
He pulled a flashlight out from his bib overalls and snapped it on. "Don't be too appreciative just yet. You got no idea what the bill for this might be."
"I was afraid you were going to say something like that."
He went around to the passenger side of the car and crawled underneath. As I ate the sandwich, the flashlight beam beneath the car danced round and round, then up and down and back again. Cletus laughed a couple of times, coughed once, then stopped for a moment and muttered, "Diddle me with a fiddlestick," before emerging back into the light.
"Should I even ask?"
"Wouldn't if I was you," he said, leaning over the opened hood and shaking his head. He reached in, jiggled a few things, checked the oil, licked his thumb and unscrewed a spark plug, then snorted a sad little laugh.
"Can you see this?" he asked me.
"What am I looking for?"
"The color. Does this look green to you?"
"The stuff coating the spark plug? Yes, it does."
"Remember that. There's gonna be a quiz later." He replaced the spark plug, then slammed closed the hood. "Way I see, Mark, you got two choices; we can tow this thing to my garage, or I can pull out my trusty Savage over-and-under and put this thing out of your misery. Your call; either way you're riding back with me."
"Is it that bad?"
"Your car or riding with me? I see I've confused you with my home-spun wit, so I'll just keep talking 'cause I'm what you call a 'local character' and like the sound of my voice; this car—and I'm being charitable using that word—is an insult to pieces of shit everywhere. You know much about how cars work?"
"Nope."
"Good, because I could pull a muscle explaining everything that's wrong with this over-priced paperweight. Understand this: I don't embellish, I don't pad the bill, and I don't talk down to folks who aren't as well-schooled about cars as my own resplendent self. Ask anyone who knows me—and you can do just that when we get to the truck stop—and they'll tell you I'm as straight and honest as they come, unless we're talking Pinochle, where I cheat like a son-of-a-bitch. You getting the gist of this long-winded preamble to the point or should I start again and talk slower?"
I think I liked him. "I'm with you so far."
"That thrills me—see how I'm all a-flutter? Okay, here goes: you've blown a head gasket—not high on the list of 'good things,' trust me—and you've got coolant leaking into the oil and cylinder. That's why the spark plug looked green. You've also got a leaking master cylinder, which is a brake component, should have been caught before this thing left the lot, and is a damn serious safety violation. If that isn't enough, I've got thirty-year-old suspenders that my dog uses as a chew-toy that're in better shape than that alternator belt—and those are just the problems I saw right off the bat. Further details would drive even Mickey Mouse to suicide. Let me ask you something: before this thing crapped-out on you, did the 'Check Engine' light come on?"
I thought about it for a moment. "You know, I don't remember seeing it come on. Why?"
He chewed on his lower lip, then shook his head. "I just got a… a feeling about something, is all. Nothing for you to worry about. Would you like to shoot it or should I?"
"I can't do anything to it, and I can't just leave it here; it doesn't belong to me."
"Then let's get you and it back to something resembling civilization."