Page 35 of A Real Goode Time
Rhys shook his head. “Nah, I’m good, Pops. Gotta drive.”
“Such a responsible boy you are.” Marty tossed the glasses into a sink behind the bar. “You have an extra few minutes for me, sometime? The Fairlane is making a funny noise when I turn, and I was hoping you could look at it.”
Rhys nodded. “Yeah, I can take a look. Is it clicking when you turn? Louder when you go faster or turn more sharply?”
Marty nodded. “Exactly what it’s doing. See? You know without even having to look at it.”
“Well, noises when you turn can only be a handful of things. But it’s not too serious.” He glanced at me. “You got anywhere to be right now?”
I laughed. “You’re my ride, so no.”
“True,” he said. “I guess I was asking if you’d be okay with me looking at his car now. I don’t want to drag you around town on my bullshit, though.”
I smiled, shrugged and shook my head. “Helping a dear like Marty isn’t bullshit, Rhys. I’m down.”
Marty patted me on the hand, winking at Rhys. “She’s a keeper, this one.”
Neither Rhys nor I knew how to respond to that one, so both of us kept quiet. Rhys fished cash out of his hip pocket, peeled off two twenties, and handed them to Marty. “You wouldn’t take anything last time, so now it’s my turn. You’re taking that and no arguments.” He glanced at an old analog clock on the wall. “You’re here till close, Marty?”
Marty crumpled the bills in his fist, nodding. “Till I kick Jimmy and O’Hearn out, and they’ll be here till I stop giving ’em beer.”
“Well, since I’ve got Torie with me, we could drive the Fairlane to the shop, and I could fix it, or at least know what the issue is, and have it back to you before close. With that old Fairlane, though, just as a warning, you may need a whole new front-end suspension. I remember noting it being pretty well aged when I poked around last time.”
Marty sighed, waved a hand, dug his keys out of his pocket and handed them to Rhys. “Just do what you gotta do to keep the old girl running, and we’ll figure something out about payment.”
Rhys nodded. “All right. I’ll call you and let you know.”
We left the little dive through the back door, waving to Marty as we passed through the kitchen. The Fairlane was parked in a tiny alley—it was white, beautifully painted, clean, no rust.
Rhys ran a hand over the hood. “Gorgeous car. Wonder of it is, it’s original. He’s kept it in this condition since he’s owned it, and he’s owned it since it was new. He and his wife bought it together—it was their first car. He had it repainted a few years ago, and I did the engine work, but it’s just a miracle of a car. If he let me pull the engine, clean it, tighten the tranny up, and reupholster the interior? He could sell it for thirty, forty grand. He would never do it, but hecould. Maybe get even more than that since it’s all original and not a refurb.”
I knew it was dumb of me, but every time he started talking cars, I just got all giddy and my belly tightened and my thighs pressed together and I just wanted to climb on him and kiss him until he…well, did things to me I’d promised myself we wouldn’t do.
Until Rhys, I hadn’t known I was so turned on by car talk.
Or maybe it was just Rhys.
I wasn’t sure, but it was a very real thing.
“What?” He glanced at me quizzically. “You’re looking at me funny.”
I was looking at him like I wanted to do things with him that I’d only ever done with Max, and only in the dark, and only under the inhibition-loosening effects of pot.
“Nothing.” I shrugged.
“Okay. I don’t believe you, but okay.” He indicated the Fairlane. “Hop in and I’ll drop you off at my Jeep.”
The inside of the Fairlane smelled like peppermint candy and cologne and old car. The seats were that velvety cloth they used to use, and there was a small gold oval photo frame dangling by a thin chain from the rearview mirror—inside the frame was a black and white photo of a beautiful young woman. Stuck into a seam of the dashboard was another photo, this one of a much younger Marty and the same woman, holding each other in what the internet now called “the prom pose.” Rhys pulled down the visor and carefully let a stack of photos slide out into his hand—he showed them to me: Marty and his wife in their thirties, then in their forties…a photo from each decade together, until the last one, Marty and his wife together as an old couple, a few years ago.
“They were married for sixty-three years. Jenny passed four years ago, and I think Marty is just biding his time until he’s ready to go, too.” He stuffed the photos gently back where they’d been, and started the car. It chugged over into a rumble, the kind of throaty, belly-buzzing rumble only a classic with a big block can make. “I don’t think he realized I tuned him some extra horsepower when I rebuilt his engine and replaced the exhaust. I couldn’t resist. He could beat just about anything off the line, if he wanted, but he drives as slow and careful as you could imagine.”
“You just…casually tuned his engine.”
Rhys laughed. “Well, I had the whole top half apart, so I was already into the damn thing. Might as well bore out the cylinders a little while I’m there, right? Upgrade the intake manifold, put a better four barrel carb on there, and bam, he’s turning out almost four hundred horses.”
“None of that is stuff you just…do, just because. I don’t know much, but I know those are all difficult, expensive upgrades.”
He shrugged. “I had the thing out and taken apart anyway. His exhaust system was corroded through in several places, his carburetor was shot, and the intake manifold was rusted to shit. It all had to be replaced. So yeah, I may’ve put in parts that were technically more performance-grade than he strictly needed, but I had them on hand because a guy had me order them and then backed out on the job, so gave ’em to Marty for cost.”