Читать книгу Klick's Shorts - Milam Smith - Страница 15

“Hey, Frankie!”

My brother’s big head swiveled towards me, eyes glaring. I was the only person left in the world calling him ‘Frankie’. From the look of his mean blue eyes, I guessed there was a little resentment there.

“Give it a rest, would ya’?” he said.

A black customer, a lithesome good-smiling lady, smiled at me. “Frankie?”

“Yeah, that’s what we all used to call him growing up.”

“When we was runts. And guess what, I ain’t a runt no more,” he said. Then, to the customer, he said, “Ignore him. He only comes around here when he needs something.”

“And calls you a name you doesn’t like being called?” the lady said.

“He ain’t never been too bright,” Frankie said, smiling. Flirting? That’s why he comes over here, wantin’ me to take care of him.”

There was nothing to say. Frankie was right.

“Well, I’s got to run, ‘Frank’. See you later,” the cute gal said as she walked sasshayed out the door.

“What is it now, Clyde?”

I set some cash down on his counter to lube him up. Instead, I just got a suspicious look.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“The last of the money I owe for the paint job on the Charger,” I told him.

It was already in his hand. He counted twice, looked at me, then held each hundred up tot he light to check it. Then he picked up a pen and slashed a mark across the bills. If it leaves a black mark, it’s phony. No black marks.

“Okay, now what do you want?”

“Hey, is that any way for a loving brother to talk?” I asked him.

“Yeah yeah. Like I said, what do you want?”

“I’ve got a surveying job. You know, keeping an eye on someone for a customer. Wondered if you had a van I could use. Cheap.”

“Sure, but I want copies of any dirty pictures,” he said.

“What, need a little help motivating yourself in the sack?” I asked, smiling.

“No, more like showing them to customers to take their mind off any parts they might be buying.” We were in Frank’s junkyard, up north of Fort Worth on Jacksboro Highway. He got up and walked through the door that leads into his workshop. Several mechanics were clanking away under hoods and cars. He headed to a side door that lead outside to what few cars he fixed up and sold for retail. Then he stopped, glared down at a motor canked sideways on the floor.

“Hey,” he said, “who left this lying on the floor?” He shook his head, knelt down, wrapped his massive arms around what looked like a 350 block, stood up. He looked at me, no stress in his face or voice. “Mind setting that cart over here.” I glanced around, found some clean, red shop rags, then holding the rangs I positioned the cart the way he wanted, then watched as he set the block down.

I don’t think it was hurting the motor the way it had been set on the floor. Frankie just liked showing off his muscles. Perhaps he was making a show of force so I’d quit calling him ‘Frankie’.

“Glad to help, Frankie.”

He set his hammy hands on his hips. He’s built like a tree stump, and the way he stood there, he kind of looked like a tree with broken limbs.

“You know,” he said, taking a cigar out of his pocket, lighting it, blowing the first basketball of smoke at me, “you didn’t know all that kung-fu moo-shu crap, I’d kick you ass right now.”

I coughed. He knew how much I hated smoking. “Yeah,” I said, waved the cloud of smoke away, then pivoted, brought up my right leg, bent, flicked out my foot, kicking the fresh glowing ash off the tip of the cigar, “but I do know that kung-fu moo-shu crap.”

He never flinched. He calmly took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at it, took out his lighter again, lighted it again, blew the acrid smoke at me again, smiled, turned and walked outside.

I followed. Brothers. What can I say?

He stopped at an old ‘67 Chevy Van, new white-painted job, only one window on the side panels, two in the back, all dark smoked glass. The age was not good, but it was clean and sharp and shouldn’t cause more than one extra glance, especially after I put a ’Frank’s Pestilence Eliminations Services’ magnetic sign on the doors.

“How much?”

He canted his head at me, smiled. “A box of those fine Cubans your friend Chan seems to always have around.”

Now, he knew this was goading me to the max. Not only would I have to ask a close friend a favor, but I’d also have to give ‘smokes’. Frankie knew I hated smoking more than anyone. Why he didn’t - since our mother had died of cancer when we were kids - I couldn’t understand.

I said, “I’ll try.”

“No try, grasshopper, just do,” he said, laughing. He tossed me the keys and turned and walked away. I’d left my Charger keys in the car. I knew Frankie would pull it behind the fence for me before he closed for the night. This was scary. If the engined sounded a bit off, Frankie would take it upon himself to tune it up…charging me for it, of course.

I climbed into the van, cranked it up. Purred like a kitten. If Frankie ain’t a font of charm, he is a damn fine mechanic.