The Midnight Dog of the Repo Man by W. Bruce Cameron Read Free Book Online

taken him some time. I couldn’t haul the thing out of there with anything less than a crane. I’d have to appeal to Mr. Croft’s sense of fairness.
    I stepped out of my truck and a large white goose peeked at me from a small shed. We gave each other baleful expressions.
    Einstein came to the door wearing an open plaid shirt and a scowl, holding a beer in his hand. He was lean, but with a soft belly spilling out over his belt. Another five years and he’d be thirty and people would describe him as having a “gut.” His hair was black, long, and stringy; eyes dark and cold. He regarded me through his storm door, a “who the hell are you?” expression on his face.
    â€œMr. Croft? I’m McCann, from Kramer Recovery.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo you want to talk through the glass, or do you want to open the door?” I asked, considerably less friendly.
    He cracked open the door and a sour odor drifted out on a blast of warm air. Over his shoulder I saw pizza boxes and dirty clothes sharing the same space on the couch. “It’s about the Chevy, Mr. Croft. You’re three payments behind again and the bank sent me out to pick it up. I need you to collect your personal property out of the vehicle.”
    Croft looked contemptuous. “I told them I’d pay next Thursday.”
    â€œIt’s not up to me. They said you’ve broken promises before. So unless you have those three payments, I need you to surrender the keys.”
    â€œGet off my land.”
    I put a fatherly expression on my face: time to roll out my best material. “Look, I know times are probably tough right now. But sometimes all a man’s got in life is his signature on a piece of paper, and I’ve got your signature on a contract saying if you can’t pay, you’ll surrender the vehicle. You have to stand up for your good name, Mr. Croft.”
    This little speech had succeeded for me a lot of times in the backwoods of Michigan, where people often really
don’t
have anything left in life but their honor. Einstein’s expression was derisive.
    â€œYou guys knew I paid late when you financed it.”
    â€œIt was financed because your dad co-signed for it. You really want us to contact your old man, tell him his son isn’t living up to his word?”
    â€œDon’t care.”
    Milt had told me the co-signer had lost his job and couldn’t pay. I blew out a breath, exasperated. “Come on, Croft, make it easy on yourself. You really want to go around through life parking your car between brick walls so I can’t get at it? Let’s get this over with now.”
    â€œYou come on my property again, I can shoot you legal,” he responded.
    â€œActually, that’s not true, it has to be hunting season,” I advised.
    He blinked, then twisted his expression into sour disgust and slammed the door in my face. I stood in the rain for a minute, then turned and trudged back to the tow truck. The goose observed me with an unblinking eye.
    The truck was sold used, so I didn’t have the original invoice in the file. No invoice, no key numbers to access to cut myself a set of keys to his truck. Normally with used cars I just tow them away, but that wasn’t an option with the way his driveway turned and how he liked to park. But this truck was built with one of the old-style, steering wheel-column ignitions. What I could do was slim jim the lock on his door and use a dent puller on the key collar, disabling the security lock on his steering wheel and ripping out the starter contacts before Einstein could recite the Theory of Relativity. Once I started the truck, though, I’d have to rock back and forth a few times before I got a good enough angle to back the thing down the driveway. He’d obviously gone through the same rocking process to park it there. If he really did have a gun in his house, I’d be a pretty easy target.
    I’d have to