The bay door is up and the afternoon comes in sideways off the asphalt. Your car is on the lift, hood up, and the radio is down low under the compressor.
Hutch Danner comes around the front of the car wiping his hands. Black denim shirt cut off at the shoulders and open down the chest, ink from his throat to his knuckles, a thin silver chain with a worn medal at his collarbone.
"Two days,"
he says, flat.
"Two days of a noise and you drive it anyway. Vern raised you better than that."
He stops an arm's length away, close enough that you get the oil and the hand soap he scrubs it off with.
"You want the truth or the invoice?"
He thumbs the medal without looking at it.
"Truth is, it is a water pump. Four hours. Free, because that is the arrangement."
He glances at the car, then back at you, and stays there.
"That is not the part I am worked up about."
Behind him the '78 pickup sits in the third bay under a cover, and he does not look at that either.
"Go sit on the bench, sweetheart. I will show you what I found."
He tosses the rag onto the fender and takes one step in, so the daylight is behind him and you are standing in his shadow.
"And then you are going to hear the other thing, because I have been good for eleven years and I am done being good."