I nearly jumped out of my skin when Katt put her arm around me.
"You know, I'm proud of you, kid. You messed up, but you undid it, all while scamming some local-type who's probably out sniffing carb cleaner right now."
"Yeah, thanks," I said, pulling away to avoid letting her see my obvious blush.
We walked further for some time. The mechanic's shop had seemed a lot closer when I reached it by driving the Mustang.
"So, I thought you weren't coming to get the Mustang?"
"Eh, this is too important to do without a guarantee. You don't match my ID, and you can't pull off a pixie cut like I can." She ran her fingers through her hair, promptly disheveling it.
"Whatever you say, Tinkerbell."
The atmosphere returned to normal as she planted her fist in my shoulder. The asphalt had the same toxic smell that it usually did when one was without a car. The road, like so many in the American city, seemed to stretch on endlessly, flanked by a combination of suburban housing and McDonalds.
"Hey, Kid," she jabbed my ribs. "There it is, right?"
I looked up at the 'Discount Mechanic' sign.
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure," I replied.
"It either is or it isn't," she snapped back harshly. "After all, I'm not the one who sold the Mustang for a four-banger."
"Well, a four-banger made your Mustang blow a head gasket, didn't it?"
"That's your crap driving."
A bell at the top of the door rang as we entered. The room reeked of smoke. A door was left half-open into a shop-area, where a black Ram sat on a lift, the hood left open. Across the greasy, stained, once-white counter sat a man with thinning, greyish-white hair, slicked back. On the beige wall next to him was a calendar, dated 1995, displaying a thinly-clad woman on top of a Camero.
"You know, that calender's 25 years too late," Katt remarked sarcastically.
"Oh yeah," the employee, looking stoned out of his mind, responded. "1995 was a good year, man." The 'N' in 'Man' held on for a good few seconds, refusing to let go.
"Listen, Dale," I read his name-tag. "I sold a car to somebody here a few hours ago. I was wondering if I could speak to that guy?"
"Nah, man. These cars aren't for sale, other people own them, we just fix them," Dale lit a cigarette that looked a little bit off and continued. "If you want to buy a car, you need to go to a car dealership." He gestured to his 'cigarettes' on the table. "Want one? Homemade," he tempted.
Katt stuck her hands on the desk, cutting me off from Dale as she said, "Listen, I'm looking for a black Mustang that I left here by mistake. 1998, V8? Surely you've seen it."
He paused for about 15 seconds.
"Ohhh," he dragged out, "you left a car here. Go ask Mark. He can help you out there."
"So," Katt asked sarcastically, "what do you do all day, direct people to Mark?"
"I'm just livin' life, man." The wretched smoke filled the room as we left to go and look for Mark.
Outside, in the yard behind the shop, we found a pair of lanky legs sticking out from underneath a car. The hiking boots on his feet may well have been brown, once, but were now faded to a beige. I jabbed Katt's arm with my elbow and pointed my pinky finger at the mid-80s Camero he was under.
"That's him."
Katt walked over, her revolver gently tapping the side of her thigh as she approached him. She pulled on the corners of her leather jacket to straighten it out before poking the sole of the hiking boots with the toe of her boot.
"You Mark?" she asked testily after his face came into view.
"Yeah," he responded, rolling out from under the car and standing up. "What's it to you?"
"I'm here for my car. Mustang, V8, black, blown head gasket. I was told you had it?"
"Sez who?"
"Dale."
"Ah," he said. "Of course. Well, y'know, Dale's an idiot. He can't do anything, he just sends 'em to me, always. It's all that weed, man, I'm tellin' ya."
"I'll get you a sign that says 'Find Mark Outside' and put him out of a job," Katt joked.
Mark laughed. "Well, you don't get your car back for makin' me laugh, kid, but that was funny. It's mine, now, sold to me fair and square-"
"And illegally," Katt cut him off. "And I'd like it back, now."
He eyed her fingers playing with the gun on her hip, shrugged, and tossed the keys back to her.
"Fine, here. But you don't get the title until you pay me back, plus part money. Head gasket's in the trunk."
I traded him the title for the cash. In the end, I paid $1,150 for the car. After we got the title back, Katt and I found it around back of the lot. She sniffed the air in the car.
"Someone's been smoking in here."
"Woah, really?" I responded sarcastically.
"Pall Malls," she said, ignoring me completely. "Kid, these weren't my cigarettes. I knew I didn't like that guy. God, I hate Pall Malls."
We got in the car, and she turned it on. As we drove back to the hotel, slowly to avoid damaging the already-harmed engine, Katt just droned on.
"...Probably smokes them with the filters on, too. I can't believe this guy, little son-of-a..."
