Hannah finished her own call, walked farther away from conflagration risks, and had a portion of a cigarette. Then she returned to the waiting room, staring out the window, too. She flopped down in a cracked fiberglass chair. “I told Ed. He wasn’t happy.”
Pellam got the impression she didn’t much care.
“Your husband, the real estate man.”
She looked at him as if asking, You heard that before. Why ask?
“Where’s Butch?” Pellam asked.
“Who?”
Oh. Right. “Taylor.”
“Headed to this little park in the middle of town. He wanted to write a poem.”
“A poem? He’s serious about that?”
Hannah continued, “Said he’d felt inspired by the experience of being out here. In a small western town.” She shook her head, meaning: I don’t get it. “There’s nothing to experience. Not here. Dust maybe, rednecks, losers, coyotes. Hamlin’s got a mall.”
Pellam wondered if the shopping center comment was delivered with the irony that seemed warranted. Apparently not.
A few minutes later the huge, bearded mechanic lumbered into the office, rearranging the grease on his fingers with a filthy rag.
“Damn shame ‘bout that pickup. Needin’ bodywork when you can still smell the new leather. That’s always the way, ain’t it? Now, miss, I got two options. First’ll get you home sooner: I can remove the old bulbs—that’s tricky since they’re busted—and then screw in new bulbs and mount the lenses. That’ll be four hundred eighty dollars. Number two, which I’d recommend, would include all that, plus the body work and replacing the hitch. You don’t want to tow nothing with it in that present condition. Paint, too.”
“And how much is that?”
“Twenty-eight fifty.”
Hannah squinted. “Really? I can have my guy in Hamlin do the bodywork for a thousand. The hitch is fine, I’ll buff off the scratches myself. And why’s that even an option? Didn’t your brother-in-law tell you I was in a hurry?”
“I—”
“So, we’re down to option one. And let’s think it through.”
“How’s that?”
She continued patiently. “You can get bulbs for six bucks a pop at NAPA, cheaper at Wal-Mart. I need four of them. The lenses? Let’s be generous. Fifty bucks each. Just need two. That’s a grand total of one twenty-four in parts. Labor? Now, the bulbs aren’t screw-mount, like you said. They’re bayonet.”
Rudy’s face had gone red beneath the smudges. “Well, I meant ‘screw,’ you know, in a like general sense.”
“I’m sure you did,” Hannah muttered. Which was really a very funny line, even if she didn’t seem to realize it. “You put a glove on. Right? Stick your finger into the broken base and push and twist. You can do all four in a minute or two. Takes you another five minutes to mount the new ones. So you’re basically charging me four hundred dollars for twenty minutes’ work. That’s a thousand dollars an hour. My lawyer doesn’t charge that. Does yours?” A look at Pellam.
“I don’t have a lawyer.” He did but he wasn’t going to get involved in this. He was enjoying himself too much.
Silence for a moment.
“I have overhead” was the only defense Rudy could mount.
From beneath her dark, silken eyebrows, she gazed unflinchingly into his evasive eyes.
“Two fifty,” he muttered.
“One fifty.”
“Two fifty.”
“One fifty,” Hannah said firmly.
“Cash?” came the uneasy riposte.
“Cash.”
“Okay. Jesus.” The mechanic sullenly retreated into his garage to fetch the tools.
Pellam glanced at the Winnebago. He had no talent whatsoever when it came to motor vehicles, except for the uncanny ability to attract state troopers when he was speeding. Rudy was going to hose him. Maybe he should have Hannah go over the estimate.
He walked to the vending machine and bought a Moon Pie. Pellam noted the “complimentary” coffee and thought about making a joke that it better say nice things about you because it looked like sludge. But Hannah just didn’t seem to be the sort to share clever comments with. He bought a vending machine instant coffee. Which wasn’t terrible, with the double milk powder.
“You really picked that fellow up?” Pellam asked her after a moment. “I clock a hundred thousand miles a year but I never pick up hitchers.”
“Even pretty women?”
“Especially them. Though I’ve been tempted.” A glance into her pale eyes. Then he grazed her tan.
She chose not to flirt back. “I normally wouldn’t’ve, but he did help me out. And I mean, really, a poet or grad student? He’s about as harmless as they come.”
“Still could be pretty dangerous,” Pellam said gravely.
She looked at him with consideration.
“What if he started reciting poetry at you?”
A blink. “Actually, he did. And it sucks.”
“You ever been to Berkeley?”
“No. I don’t travel much. Not out of the state.”
Pellam had scouted for a film there. The movie was about the regents at a fictional school, which happened to look a lot like UC-B, tear-gassing protesting students in the sixties, and the rise of the counterculture. All very politically correct. The critics liked it. Unfortunately most of the people who went to see it, which was not very many, did not. Pellam thought the concept had potential but the director had ignored his suggestions—because he was JTLC. And even though he’d been a successful director himself years ago, anyone who was Just-the-Location-Scout, like Just-the-Grip or even Just-the-Screenwriter, was bound to be ignored by God.
“He seems old to be a student.”
A shrug, a glance toward Pellam, as if she was noticing him for the first time. “Maybe one of those perpetual college kids. Doesn’t want to get into the real world. Afraid of making money.”
The Moon Pie was pretty good. He thought about offering her a bite.
But he liked it more than he liked her, despite the glance from her cool, gray eyes.
Pellam eyed a ‘74 Gremlin, painted an iridescent green that existed nowhere in nature. Now, that was a car with personality, whatever else you could say about it. From the tiny engine to the downright weird logo of, yes, a gremlin. He stuck his head inside. It smelled like what 1974 must have smelled like.
Rudy finished the job in jiffy time and even washed the windshield for her, though the water in the pail didn’t leave it much cleaner than before.
She paid him and the big mechanic went on to look over Pellam’s Winnebago. Two flat tires, wrecked bumper, probably front-end work. Maybe the fan. If a bit of paint and fixing some dents was going to cost Ms. Hostility nearly three grand, what the hell was his estimate going to be? At least he had the production company credit card, though that would entail a complicated and thorough explanation to the accounting powers that be—and in the film business those were formidable powers indeed.
Rudy went off to do his ciphering. Pellam expected him to lick his pencil tip before he wrote, but he didn’t.
“Where the hell’s Taylor?” Hannah looked around with some irritation. “I told him to meet me here.”
Pellam decided that with her impatience, edge, and taste for authentic jewelry, in quantity, a poet would not make the cut in a relationship.
Good luck to you, Ed.
“You have Taylor’s number?” Pellam asked.
“No phone. He doesn’t believe in them. One of those.”
He didn’t know exactly what that category was, but he could figure it out. “How big can Gurney be?” Pellam asked.
“Too big,” she said.
She was tough but Pellam had to give her credit for some really good lines.