“Did they tell you when they’ll be finished with the car?” Rust’s voice is groggy, like he just woke up, even though it’s after ten and he’s showered and shaved for the day and is standing in the garage’s office.
“A few days. I just ordered a replacement window. They said that’ll take a week to come in.”
He tosses the keys to his Cayenne to me. “Take mine until it’s back.”
“You sure? I can rent a car.”
He waves my concern away with a dismissive hand, his eyes roaming the white walls of the tiny space, where we’ve managed to cram two desks into enough space for one.
“Listen, if anyone asks, tell them your engine was giving you problems and you sent it to the dealer for repair.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because some jackass stole my nephew’s car and I want to find out who! I’m going to make a few very discreet calls to see if this is a local crew or something bigger. We don’t want anyone moving in on us. It puts more heat on the area.”
“Alright. Where are you going to be today? RTM?”
“No, I need to sort out a hiccup.” I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “Some deliveries that haven’t made it to the warehouse yet. Not sure what the delays are.”
It’s almost funny: in one breath he’s condemning the people who stole my car; in the next, it’s business as usual. Am I the only one who’s been feeling more than an ounce of empathy for these people who we royally fuck over? I wonder, if Rust had been the one to walk out of a movie theater and see his car missing, whether he’d have second thoughts about what we’re involved in.
“How are you handling things around here?”
I nod slowly, looking over the neat piles of color-coordinated folders in front of me. Four days ago, facing the organized chaos that is Miller’s desk—a two-foot-tall stack of paperwork that combined invoices, customer orders, and a half dozen other forms that I have no clue what to do with—I would have answered Rust with a lot of bitching and moaning.
But I slowly figured my way through things, sorting paperwork, making calls. I actually feel like I have a handle on running this place. Of course, there’s still plenty I don’t know, but the place hasn’t come to a halt without Miller.
“It’s going pretty good, actually.” I get to talk to people, and I actually feel useful because I can usually diagnose what’s wrong with their car based on their complaints. Plus, the guys around here seem to like me more than Miller. That’s not to say I’d ever get rid of Miller, but still, I like feeling like I’m managing something.
Most of all, though, there isn’t that same anxiety I feel when I’m on the phone with Rodriguez or the other fence, Cage. The tension that stiffens my back every time I pass on another message for another car they need to steal. Another person I’m about to screw over.
Here, I’m actually solving people’s problems, not creating them.
He starts rubbing his chin in that very “I have an idea” Rust-like way. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
I laugh. “I saw you last Sunday night. It’s been stupid busy in here, with Miller gone and me figuring things out. I’ve been working late every night. Hell, last night was the first time I saw Rain since the weekend.”
“Rain?”
“That girl I took with me to Aref’s party.”
“Right. You never gave me her name before. How’d you meet this girl, again?”
“She’s the one who brought her Audi in that day, remember?”
“Ah . . . yes. Pretty girl.” He nods slowly, smiling. The smile is quickly wiped away with a frown. “You’re spending a lot of time with her.”
“Not really.” Not nearly as much as I want to. Every night when I get home, my eyes wander to my window and across the way, looking for her. She said she’d be busy with some assignments that she’s been slacking on this week. I don’t know what kind of photography course this is, but she seems to be taking it fairly seriously. That, or this is all part of that speech she gave me about “not losing herself to another guy.”
“More than your usual girls.”
“So?”
He shrugs. “So, you should bring her around one night. I’d like to meet her.”
“I don’t know if we’re quite there yet.” Introducing her to Rust is basically introducing her to a parent. Worse, I’d actually care if Rust didn’t approve of her. It would crush me.
“Fine. Then at least meet me at The Cellar tonight and pretend that you remember who I am.”
I start laughing, earning his smile.
The door squeaks open and a haggard Miller walks in.
“Hey! Look who made it back! You feeling better?” Rust exclaims, watching his diligent manager amble toward his desk.
“I’m fine. Marie’s just overreacting,” Miller grumbles in response.
“Hey, I had no idea you were married,” I say.
Rust chuckles. “Maybe you two should actually talk once in a while. Who knows? You may learn to like each other. Miller, take it easy. Let Luke handle more. I need you firing on all cylinders, right?” I’m guessing the high-browed look Rust shoots Miller has nothing to do with operating the garage. The big shipment night is coming up and Miller will be the one picking up the payout from Vlad in the dark motel parking lot.
“I’ll be fine.” Miller clears his throat, bringing up all kinds of phlegm that contradicts his words.
Rust knocks against my desk. “Tonight. We have some things to talk about. And . . . I’ll have some paperwork for you to sign.” There’s that smile again. The one I always see when he’s about to surprise me. “I wouldn’t recommend changing the name, though.” He winks. “ ‘Rust’s Garage’ is kind of known around these parts.”
My jaw drops. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Miller’s is hanging low too. “Seriously?” Rust is keeping his word and signing over the garage to me?
“And set something up with Aref at Corleone’s for later this week.” He levels me with a stare on his way out the door, and I know I had better get my ass in gear and not get distracted by his latest display of generosity.
I look up to see Miller watching me quietly. I wonder what he’s thinking. Probably that my first order of business is to fire him. Truth is, if this week taught me anything, it’s that Miller is a really good manager and this place needs him. “I took care of most of the invoicing and orders. Payroll’s done. There’s just that yellow folder left that I had no idea what to do with.”
“Maybe you’re not completely useless, after all,” he grumbles as he begins rifling through the unfinished work.
“Relax. Your job is safe,” I chuckle. “You run this place better than I ever could.”
That seems to soften him a bit. “No car today?”
I wait until he lifts his oversized mug of coffee to his mouth before I say, “It’s with the cops, being processed for evidence after some asshole jacked it last night.”
Coffee sprays out of Miller’s mouth and all over his monitor, over his desk. “Son of a bitch,” he growls, grabbing a wad of napkins nearby, only to knock the mug over with his elbow, spilling the rest of the coffee onto paperwork.
I know Rust said to keep it on the down-low, but this is Miller. I’m over the initial shock. Now I’m equal parts annoyed and amused by the irony. The part of my conscience that keeps chanting, “You fucking deserve it,” keeps me from getting too angry.
“Here.” I toss a roll of paper towels his way.
He grabs it with one meaty hand. “Joyrider?”
“No way. Had to be a professional hit. They found it in a storage locker in NoPo, just off Highway 5, waiting to be moved no doubt.” It’s shocking how quickly I’ve come to understand this whole operation. “They’re processing the car right now. I’d love to see who they were planning on selling it to.” Saying that is as close to admitting that I know all about the ring and what Miller does for Rust. A part of me wants to talk to Miller openly about the entire thing, to see what he thinks, to ask him if he ever wishes he were just the garage manager.
“I wonder,” he mutters, clearing his throat several times. He looks about ready to collapse, his face red and swollen, swiping at a bead of sweat running down his brow.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You can go home if you need to. I can manage for the rest of the week. I don’t want you dying on me.”
“It’s nothing. Just this damn cold that Paige gave me. It’s more annoying than anything.”
“Paige?”
“My daughter.”
“You have a daughter?” I don’t mean for it to sound as incredulous as it comes out.
“I have three.” He falls back into his chair. “All teenagers now.”
Miller’s gene pool is walking around Portland right now. With breasts. I’m trying to picture that but, taking in the deep cleft in Miller’s chin and his trunk-like limbs, I’m struggling. I hope they got their looks from their mother. I have no idea what she looks like, but I’m guessing anything would be an improvement.
By the glare Miller shoots my way, I’m guessing he can read my mind and he’s about ready to punch me. I deserve it. I’m being an asshole. “Probably why you’re so stressed out,” I offer.
“Yeah, probably,” he mutters, hanging his head a little as he tries to salvage an invoice.
