Muscle Car Man Read online

  Muscle Car Man

  By Deirdre O’Dare

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2017 Deirdre O’Dare

  ISBN 9781634864916

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission from the publisher, with the exception of excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  For the boys and their fantastic cars back in the 60s. I watched and envied even though I preferred my horses at the time.

  Maybe one of these days I'll have that sky blue T’ Bird or classic Mustang, but anyway I will always have the dream. Long live the muscle cars, no matter how high the gas prices go!

  * * * *

  Muscle Car Man

  By Deirdre O’Dare

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 1

  Buckhorn, Arizona

  June 18

  Jeff Castle slammed down the phone. He wanted to throw it across the room. How in the bloody fucking hell am I supposed to be ten places at once? If I can’t get some reliable help this week I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  To some, Jeff’s business might be termed a junkyard, but to aficionados of classic cars, especially the “muscle cars” of the sixties and early seventies, it was a haven of dreams. Row upon row, literally dozens of restorable vehicles, and others good for parts to pull and reassemble. They could become the car many had always lusted after and longed for, or maybe owned at some earlier time and now wanted to recapture those bygone days. Mustangs and Trans Ams, ‘Cudas, Firebirds and Camaros—they were all here, some rusted heaps of worn out metal, but others just waiting for the right person to restore them to their former glory.

  Jeff had inherited the business from his late uncle and taken over management a year ago. He’d been looking for a way to get off the high tech fast track, which had suddenly become a slippery road to hell for him with the economic upheavals. The dubious inheritance had held the promise of providing him an alternative. He’d always enjoyed tinkering on old cars himself, but where was the poetic justice in sitting in the midst of them without a spare minute to work on the one he’d selected for his own? Seemed he’d just jumped from frying pan to frying pan, if not directly into the flames.

  Today someone had discovered yet another candidate to offer him, this one half-buried in a tumble-down barn down the valley. He almost regretted the recurring ad he ran in regional papers offering to buy classic cars in salvageable condition. Another ad offered parts and vehicles in various conditions from restorable to only parts and scrap. Business was fitful, but getting better.

  He’d need to take the slider down to pick the car up—if it was what the man claimed. If not, he’d have to consider how much he could afford to offer for it and even if it was worth the bother. But in order to make the run, he’d have to close and lock the gates and lose goodness knew how many parts sales and possible whole vehicle sales while he was gone. The lack of reliable employees was getting the best of him.

  With a sigh, he drove the slider tow truck out through the gate, shut it, and hung up a closed sign. Be back soon, it read. Please come again. Some would and some would not, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. He climbed into the cab and drove off down the gravel road, trailing a rooster tail of dust.

  Some miles out of town, he spied a man walking on the side of the road. Picking up hitchhikers was not something he normally did. Later on he never could quite decide what made him stop. The man certainly didn’t look too appealing, dirty and ragged, a week’s worth of beard darkening his lean face, and a hungry, haunted look in his eyes. Still, something made Jeff pull over. Maybe because it was a smoking hot day and this road down between declining and deserted farms into the edge of the desert didn’t promise many rides.

  “Hey, fella, do you need a lift?”

  The man looked up, hardly a trace of hope in the wary yet wistful expression on his face. “It’d help.” He waited, not barging forward to reach for the door, as if he thought Jeff would drive off once he got a good look.

  “Well, come on. I’m short on time and heading farther out before I go back to town, but if that’s okay with you, get in.”

  The stranger climbed in, grabbed the seat belt without Jeff having to remind him, and then sat back, his shoulders slumping as if in relief. “Hot day,” he said.

  “Look back of the seat. I’ve got some water in a cooler there if you’re thirsty. Not good to get dehydrated. It can happen fast out here. Humidity is about five percent today.”

  “Thanks.” The man turned and reached, took out a bottle and opened it with exaggerated care. He finished the whole thing in about five swallows.

  Jeff glanced across at his unexpected passenger. Up close the man didn’t look too bad. True, he had dust on him, and his clothes had seen better days, but he didn’t have the dirt-crusted complexion of someone who no longer cared and hadn’t bathed in weeks, and he didn’t smell that way either. Clean shaven and with a decent haircut, the guy wouldn’t be half bad looking. Probably just down on his luck.

  “I’m Jeff Castle,” he said. “I have a junkyard, but it’s not just a standard old clunker one. I specialize in muscle cars. There’s supposed to be a Barracuda in pretty good shape down here on a farm a guy just bought. If it’s half what he said, I’ll be taking it back.”

  “Name’s Mike,” the stranger said after a moment. “Home was once in east Texas. Now it’s not anywhere in particular. My old car broke down, and I guess I took the wrong direction trying to make my way back to the highway. I was trying to locate the place where my uncle used to live, but it looks like he’s long gone.”

  “What’s your trade? Looking for a job?” Again the offer was impulsive, but Jeff figured if Mike was hungry enough he might be willing to work, for a while anyway. Right now any warm body and willing hands would be better than what he had. Covering all the bases alone was just not hacking it.

  “I used to do a little stock car driving and some mechanic work, but I’m out of practice. Just so you don’t find out later, I got out of prison about six weeks ago. I didn’t do all they sent me up for, but that’s a moot point. I was convicted and served my time. I’m finding not too many businesses want to hire a con.”

  Jeff shrugged. “You can’t be bonded, but I’ve got a lot of things to do around the place that don’t require bond. If you’re willing to work, I can give you a place to stay, three meals a day and some spending money. We can probably even get your car if you want to keep it. What is it?”

  “A sixty-five Mustang, one I used to race. It sat at my sister’s place for several years and her kids kind of trashed it. Wasn’t in great shape anyway. Prob’ly should h
ave left it there, but I didn’t. It got me all the way here from Beaumont anyway.”

  Jeff laughed. “I’ve got a whole row of ‘em in my yard. You ought to be able to cannibalize whatever you need to get it back in shape. We can work something out.”

  “Man, I don’t know how to thank you. I’ve got about five dollars in my pocket and a change of clothes back in the car. That’s all I own in the effin’ world. A job and a place to stay sound damn good to me. I’ll try not to make you regret it.”

  “Just out of curiosity, what did you get sent up for?” Jeff slid another glance across at his unexpected passenger. Hell, he could be a serial killer for all I know but somehow I don’t think so.

  “Aggravated assault and then a cop got involved. Yeah, I did do part of it, but there were those good ole extenuating circumstances, none of which came out in the trial.” Mike shrugged. “Shit happens. It’s over, and I hope I can get the blot off my name eventually.”

  * * * *

  The ‘Cuda was a surprising gem. It had been mostly sheltered from the weather for goodness only knew how long. The body was in unusually good shape. After they moved some fallen boards off the vehicle and dragged it out of the shed, Jeff popped the hood. It was clean there, too. The rubber was shot, but all the metal was in good shape. He gave the gentleman farmer a check for fifteen hundred with no qualms, loaded the car, and headed back toward town.

  So far Mike had proved to be a quiet, alert helper. He was at the right place at the right time, had very little to say, and obeyed any instructions quickly and without argument or even comment. He obviously knew cars and engines from the few things he’d said as they’d looked it over. Jeff agreed with the other man’s assessment of the ‘Cuda and appreciated the fact Mike had noted a couple of minor things he’d missed.

  Mike kept his own counsel on the drive back to town, pitched in to unload the ‘Cuda and then waited to see what needed to be done next.

  “I need to get the office open again until five,” Jeff explained. “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  Mike nodded. “Sure. I wouldn’t have started off across country without one.”

  “How about a CDL? Ever handle a slider or a tow truck?”

  The other man shrugged. “Yeah. It’s been a while, but I’ve done it.”

  “Do you want to go get your car? Can you handle it on your own?”

  Mike shot Jeff a quizzical glance. “You’re willing to trust a jailbird with your truck? Isn’t that kind of risky?”

  Jeff laughed. “Hell, it’s got a GPS unit in it. I can track wherever it goes. If you aren’t back by dark I could put out an all points and the cops would be looking for it. That’d be pretty stupid on your part.”

  “You’ve got me there.”

  When Mike grinned, the softening expression totally changed his face. Cleaned up he could be one good looking guy.

  He shrugged. “Yeah, I can get the Mustang. Should be back in an hour or a little more if I can find my way back on those damn farm roads to where I left it. And thanks. I will feel better to know its safe here with me.”

  “Get gone. I’ve got work to do. And when you get back, you will, too.”

  * * * *

  Mike whistled a vague tune as he steered Jeff Castle’s truck out the gate and headed back the way they had just come. Life sure did take some surprising turns. There he was, hoofing it along in the blazing sun, and all at once he had a job, a place to stay and maybe even a future. Talk about getting lucky.

  He wasn’t quite sure what to make of his new boss. Something about Jeff seemed to proclaim money, education and class, so why would a guy with such stuff going for him be running a glorified junkyard? Maybe it was just a hobby to him, fooling with classic cars and running a half-assed business to support it, although he’d seemed to be pretty serious about the business end.

  And what would make a guy like that willing to take in a stray, a down-on-his luck, broken-down stock car racer and an ex-con on top of it? Were there some ulterior motives? Well, I can take care of myself if push comes to shove. Once I get the Mustang running again I can head on down the road anytime I feel like it. One thing about being in the big house, you do learn some self-defense and how to weasel out of bad scenes.

  Mike didn’t have too much trouble locating the Mustang. He backed the truck up to it, worked the hydraulics to tilt the bed, and hooked onto the old car. It rolled smoothly up onto the steel deck and he tied it down.

  It had made him kind of sick to walk off from his car, and he felt a lot better to have it in his possession again. When he’d left, he didn’t know if he’d be able to go back for it or not. The Mustang was his last link to the life he’d known before everything fell apart and he landed in the slammer. It gave him a dim ray of hope he could get his life back, or at least some kind of a decent life. He had to be grateful to Jeff Castle for the chance, whatever his motives might be.

  An hour and fifteen minutes later, he drove back through the junkyard gate. He realized he’d better ask Jeff where he should put the Mustang, so he pulled up alongside the office, a metal building that had seen some recent paint and clean up from the looks of things. As he looked around, he saw everything was pretty shipshape, weeds cut back, no paper or trash lying around. The vehicles were in neat rows by make and model for the most part. It wouldn’t be hard to find what you were after. Pretty spiffy junkyard, I gotta admit.

  Jeff was on the phone when Mike entered the office, so he stood quietly to one side, out of the way of a couple of customers fidgeting at the counter. After Jeff took care of them, he turned in Mike’s direction. “Get the car okay?”

  Mike nodded. “Oh yeah, no worries. Where do you want me to put it?”

  “I’ve got an older mobile home out there, about a hundred yards behind this building. It’s livable, I think, and it’s got gas, water and electric, a cooler and stuff. You can move in there for the time being, so you might want to off-load your car beside it.”

  “Okay, when I get it set down, I’ll bring the truck back up here.”

  The mobile wasn’t bad. He checked it out after he unloaded the car. Everything seemed to work and it was sound, with no sign of rats or obvious leaks. He’d lived in worse. Another mark in Jeff’s favor. He suspected the other man would not keep anything on the place that wasn’t sellable or serviceable, just from the way he seemed to do business. There was a no-nonsense practicality about Jeff, which Mike had to admire. He was more of a dreamer himself, seeing possibilities, but not always following up on them. Some might call him a ne’er-do-well. Some had.

  For free housing, it was better than just okay. Of course staying there he’d provide some security, an informal watchman for the place, so Jeff got something out of the arrangement, too. Experience told Mike nobody did anything without getting theirs back, one way or another. He recognized Jeff was way out of his class, but he could still look and wonder. The man was damn good-looking, had a great build and an easygoing manner Mike found very appealing. How would it be to have a partner like him, a permanent place? Aw, can it. Dreams are just dreams.

  After three years in the pen and having to accept some less-than-welcome attention or get his ass kicked, it would be nice to be able to pick his own friends again and maybe more. Still, he wouldn’t push anything. For all he knew, Jeff wasn’t the least bit interested. He probably had a wife or at least a lady in a nice house in town and absolutely no use for a beat-up race driver and mechanic who didn’t have much to offer except the ability to do some work. He told himself he was okay with such status. A special relationship was one of those nice-to-have things that wasn’t essential when a guy was hungry, broke and down to his last bit of luck. For now he’d count his blessings.

  Chapter 2

  During the next two weeks, Jeff relaxed into an easy working relationship with Mike. He all but forgot the other man was a convict. Mike proved to be one of the best workers Jeff had ever employed. No sooner did a customer enter the office than Mike picked
up on what the person wanted and was off finding it, searching the warehouse area or out in the lot taking it off a vehicle if necessary. Occasionally Jeff sent him on a run with the slider or the older regular tow truck, too. Mike seemed reluctant only to handle the money or deal directly with customers, so Jeff respected his unspoken wishes.

  But Jeff still found Mike awfully taciturn and wondered, at times, if the lean man was really antisocial or simply shy. He’d shaved, gotten a hair cut and cleaned up pretty well. Even though he did get greasy and dirty crawling under cars and delving into the engine compartments, he started work each day in clean, though somewhat ragged, clothes. There was a lot about the guy to like. If he’d shown any inclination to open up, Jeff would have tried to cultivate a closer friendship, but it seemed Mike preferred to keep the world at arm’s length.

  Well, I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to be in prison. He never said for how long but even a year would be too much. And the tales I’ve heard about brutal assaults, both sexual and plain old bullying are enough to curl my toes. I suppose it’s bound to leave a mark on a person. But I wish he’d be a little less standoffish. Given time, I think I’d consider making him a partner in the business and maybe even socializing some.

  The blistering heat of early summer in the Arizona desert eased off slightly as the humidity began to climb for the rainy season. In some ways, this was even worse. Now the evaporative “swamp coolers” only stirred the muggy air. Since air conditioning was too expensive to use in the big old Quonset hut that served as the office and warehouse space for Castle Classic Cars, all Jeff could do was sweat and endure.

  July third saw clouds piling up over the distant mountains, but it didn’t help much. Jeff expected a slow day and at eleven he almost hung out the closed sign. Instead he decided to work on the computerized inventory system he was trying to fine-tune to keep track of everything he had in the warehouse and yard. He thanked his high-tech background. It gave him a leg up on understanding and working with up-to-date automation tools. For several hours he lost himself in the work.