Damaged Goods by Austin Camacho Read Free Book Online Page B

Huge before the end of next week.”

    Before his conversation with Monte faded from his mind, Hannibal was cruising down I-295, watching for the exit to the Beltway that would point him toward Maryland. The nearest mechanic who would admit to being able to perform the kind of automotive surgery needed to create Rod’s car lived across the Potomac in the Southern Maryland county of St. Mary’s. It was the same man who had been identified by his peers during Hannibal’s telephone investigation.
    Hannibal still marveled at how abruptly his urban environment faded to a rural setting. The city feeling dropped away within twenty minutes of driving, when he turned onto Maryland’s Route 5 and headed south toward Mechanicsville. He spent a lot of time alone with the Tornado, and he knew just where on the RPM scale she would settle into a smooth and steady cruise. This was the speed at which his Volvo was happiest, and once he hit it he liked to settle back and enjoy the scenery moving past him. At these times he enjoyed his favorite guilty pleasure, the classic rock music that always made him feel so good. None of his friends could really appreciate the Lynrd Skynrd album thumping in his CD player right then, but he was sure the people who lived on either side of the road he was cruising down would love it.
    His head was still bobbing when he turned off the highway, and again onto an even smaller road. He slowed to a crawl to drive over the ruts and potholes, eventually moving onto a road barely wide enough to accommodate two cars passing. Willows lined the road, leaning far enough over to occasionally brush the Tornado’s white roof. Just as he was beginning to doubt the accuracy of his directions, Hannibal saw four single-story buildings. One looked as if it might hold an office, while the others were clearly garages and work areas.
    The pit bull snarling at him at the end of a short chain marked this as rural white territory. Sarge called these people SMIBs, an unflattering acronym for Southern Maryland In-Breds. Of course, Hannibal had been in Black-owned junkyards with a very similar look except that for some reason, the brothers always had rottweillers or Doberman pinschers chained to their gates.
    Hannibal sat for a moment, parked in front of a row of vintage cars, and partial cars. He allowed himself those few seconds to decide on the best approach to get the information he needed. Despite the barking dog, no one came outside to meet him, so in his own time he opened his door and stepped out. The car’s air-conditioned atmosphere puffed out with him and evaporated, allowing the heat of the day to wraparound him like a soft blanket. The humidity fogged his Oakley’s for a second. The smell of oil or transmission fluid was tainted with the odor that rises when someone who chews tobacco has spit in the same place too many times. He looked down to see dust rise from the hard packed dirt surface and settle on his previously glistening shoes. On an impulse, he pulled his gloves off, dropped them on the seat, shut the door and headed inside.
    Ten steps later Hannibal opened the door of the first cinder block building. He knew right away why no one had stepped out. A loud compressor was keeping that room ice cold. He saw everything he expected to see there: a parts manual open on a wooden counter, vinyl chairs on the customer side, a Coke machine in the corner, barely clad models on the calendar on the opposite wall, and a hard-skinned, smiling white man standing behind the counter.
    â€œMorning,” the man said. “What can I do you for today? You looking for a car, or you want some work done on that 850 GLT outside?”
    Hannibal held his hand out for a shake, and got it. “I’m Hannibal Jones, and I’m betting you’re Clarence Nash.” Nash was in his early fifties, with silver hair and a beard that had simply grown as far as it wanted to and stopped. He wore overalls,