StoneDust by Justin Scott Read Free Book Online Page B

marinade.”
    â€œDon’t forget Morris Mountain.”
    I hung up, put my feet on the desk, and imagined what it felt like not to have invited your best friend to your party the night he overdosed.
    What could I report to Janey Hopkins? Reg Hopkins had been cold sober at five in his office. He had left the diner shortly after six, apparently sober, gassed up the Blazer, disappeared for nearly five hours, and surfaced for ice cream, again apparently sober, only to disappear until they found him in the bridge.
    I guess Janey had gotten her money’s worth. I’d certainly touched a lot of bases. But five missing hours was a long time. Not to mention the hours between ice cream and dawn.
    The next day I got smarter.
    I drove down to Frenchtown, to Chevalley Enterprises—a seven-bay garage my cousin Renny had created and which was now run by his widow, Betty, and his big brother Pinkerton. Pink had been a hell of a dirt-track racer in his day, but like most Chevalley men—Renny being the notable exception—he was long on aggression, short on patience, and utterly devoid of managerial skills. The outfit was lumbering along regardless. Betty Butler Chevalley was learning fast how to operate the office, and Pink, while no manager in the conventional sense, managed to terrorize his mechanics into turning in a reasonable day’s work.
    Mainly because they were the only show in town, they had hung on to the state police towing contract for the area, which was why I was visiting. I located Pink by his shouting.
    â€œ Which one of you guys took my screwdriver ?”
    Six mechanics buried their faces in car innards. A seventh scuttled off to the parts room, and two men took a Buick for a test drive.
    â€œIt’s a Philips. It’s marked ‘P.C.’: Pink Chevalley. My screwdriver—”
    â€œHey, Pink? Got a minute?”
    â€œGot all day with no goddamned tools. Turn your back and some son of a bitch is using your best screwdriver to open oil cans. What’s up, Ben?”
    â€œCome on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
    There was free coffee in the Chevalley waiting room, a very comfortable space with good chairs and newspapers and coffee and donuts.
    â€œMay I buy you a donut too?”
    Betty Chevalley, redheaded, plump, and harried, called from the computer, “He’s already eaten twelve today.”
    Pink snatched up his thirteenth and lumbered outdoors, where he was happier. I followed. “Listen, you towed Reg’s Blazer?”
    â€œTowed into Plainfield. Battery was dead. Lights on all night.” Pink laughed.
    â€œWhat’s funny?”
    â€œOllie Moody tried to dump us. Hires this Exxon asshole from down Route Seven. Guy couldn’t respond to his first call. Truck wouldn’t start and he had four flat tires. Can you imagine that?”
    Knowing the Chevalleys—a far-flung family, clannish and not entirely civilized—I had little trouble imagining their competitor’s problems.
    â€œDid you notice how much gas was in the Blazer?”
    â€œBattery was dead.”
    â€œYeah, right. Did the needle swing up or down?”
    â€œHe had them high-tech idiot lights. No juice, no computer, no idiot lights.”
    Smarter, but not smarter enough.
    Pink looked anxious to get back to his yelling.
    â€œDid it bounce?” I asked.
    â€œDid what bounce?”
    â€œThe Blazer, when you towed it.”
    â€œOf course it bounced. It’s a Blazer.”
    â€œDid it bounce like with a full tank or with an empty tank?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œReg told me he had to keep the tank full, otherwise it would bang his head on the roof.”
    â€œOh, yeah. Yeah. I know what you mean.”
    â€œFull or empty?”
    Pink thought back. “I had to pick it up myself ’cause that high-school kid I had driving Sundays got lost in the flatbed…You know, I’d guess nearer empty than full. Came around a bend