BY TOM DARIN LISKEY
Copyright is held by the author.
The summer I turned 15, I found a job at an auto body shop for $25 a week. At first, all I did was sweep floors, empty trash bins, and clean the greasy bathrooms. Pretty easy work.
The shop’s owner, Malone, had some sweetheart deals with crooked insurance adjusters, buying totalled cars for next to nothing and fixing them up to sell on the lot in front of the shop. Malone did chop work too, because the cops sometimes came by to check the back lot where he kept spare parts.
Malone owned the business, but his chief body man Jim Velez really ran the shop. And Jim’s son-in-law, Jim Krizski, worked as a mechanic. Everyone called them Big Jim and Lil’ Jim.
But Lil’ Jim was a mess. With his stringy blond hair and rat-whisker goatee, he stumbled in most mornings with a hangover. I caught him drinking beer in the junk lot more than once. He’d always say the same thing: “Between us, right hoss?” Then he’d take a deep pull and belch.
Once Lil’ Jim got so smashed he passed out at work. The guys complained, but Malone just shrugged.
When Lil’ Jim got into hot water at home with his wife, he slept on a cot in the back storeroom. Big Jim didn’t seem to care about how rocky their marriage was. He liked having Lil’ Jim around because he laughed at his jokes. They were mostly about Malone. He may have been the owner of the shop, but Velez called him a fat ass or lazy bastard to his face. The guys treated him like crap, I guess, because they saw Velez get away with it. They would storm into his office to cuss him out when supplies ran short. Malone never said a word back. They said he was too scared to fire anyone.
Another guy at the shop was Rick, the painter. His bay was separated from the main shop, and he kept to himself. After a few weeks, he showed me how to tape windows and sand putty spots before primer. One perk of the job was fetching Malone’s lunch from the fried chicken shack across the road. He let me keep the change.
I never knew about Malone’s home life, but he dressed like a bachelor — thick-soled shoes, baggy pants, beat-up windbreaker. Most days he sat at his desk facing the fly-specked window. He tried to look busy, but I knew he kept a bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer, and like Lil’ Jim, he’d get stewed. One day when he got tipsy, he had this crazy idea to hang pennant flags on the car antennas and fly a USED CARS banner over the shop. When I finished, he slapped my back and said, “Great job,” with a belch.
Not too long after that, Malone ran into my mom at the supermarket and told her I was a hard worker. She seemed proud. Made Malone kind of cool in my book.
***
My mom’s friend from church, Sister Peggy, lived on our street. A few years back, she had a brain tumor. Only part of her mouth moved when she spoke. She had two kids — Henry, a few years older than me, and Sherry, my age. I had a major crush on Sherry, with her long black hair and gray eyes.
One evening after church, they got T-boned at a stoplight. Neither drivers had insurance. Their Pinto was the only way they could get around. My mom told Sister Peggy to talk to Malone.
Henry drove the rattling Pinto to the shop. The driver’s door was caved in, the passenger door barely opened, and the front wheel wobbled. I overheard her telling Malone she didn’t have much money but needed the car fixed. “Just about anything would do,” she said.
Malone asked about insurance. She shook her head. He walked around the Pinto, popped the hood, yanked the door, shook the bumper. Back inside, he punched numbers on his desk calculator. “How much you got?”
“Five-fifty,” she said softly. I imagine even that was a squeeze — her husband was in jail, and she lived off state aid and what little Henry made bagging groceries.
Malone leaned back, fingers locked behind his head. “That car shouldn’t be on the road,” he said. “It’s totalled.”
She tensed, thinking he’d hit her with a big repair bill. “I was afraid of that,” she whispered.
Malone exhaled, lungs wheezing under a two-pack Winston habit. “Look, here’s the deal. I need that Pinto for parts. So why don’t we do some horse trading?”
She looked at the lot, at the cars with soap-scrawled prices. “We can’t afford anything.”
“You need a ride — and I need your car. Pretty simple. What does your boy do?”
“He bags groceries at the IGA.”
“If he’s willing to come in and help out with my sander,” Malone said, nodding at me, “he can work it off.”
She wiped the wet corner of her eye with her balled-up hand. “I don’t quite get you.”
“I’ll pay him something too. If that’s your concern.”
Malone showed her the title for a black Ford Falcon he’d picked up at an insurance auction for next to nothing.
“I needed to get that Falcon out of here anyway. Tax liabilities and such. Now I’m on the level with this. I need an extra hand.”
She shuffled over. He handed her the title. She looked at it, unsure. Henry touched her shoulder. “It’s OK, Mom. I can do it.”
“Clean and clear?” she asked. Her voice shook.
“Square deal,” Malone said. “These two boys are witnesses. We’ll keep it between us.”
She hugged him. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Make sure he shows up next week. That’s the only thanks I need.”
Malone handed Henry the keys. I gave him a box to clean out the Pinto. When they drove off in the Falcon, Big Jim stood in the office wringing his greasy hands. Lil’ Jim smoked a Winston.
“See?” Big Jim said. “That dumb-ass Irishman knows how to make a buck sometimes.”
Then he eyed Malone. “Did you get asking price?”
“Sure, Jim,” Malone said, eyes on the lot.
“Good, ’cause you had that drunk-ass son-in-law of mine overhauling the car’s engine all week. We’re still backed up because of it.”
Malone locked his fingers on his belly. “Drinks are on me tonight, gents.”
Big Jim tossed a rag at me. “It’s about time you started treating us better, you crooked bastard.”
Malone just nodded. “Sure, Jim.”
Henry worked at the shop the rest of the year. Sometimes Sherry came by to see him, but I froze up around her. The painter Rick liked Henry and showed him the ropes. At the end of each week, Malone paid us both in cash. Henry didn’t want to take it at first, but Malone told him to. Said he won it at the casino across the river, and he didn’t want Uncle Sam to find out about it.
Henry joined the Navy after high school. The last time Sherry came by the shop, I was sweeping up, trying to build up enough confidence to ask her out on a date. But by the time I came out, she was gone. I told myself there’d be another chance. There wasn’t. I never saw either of them again after he left for boot camp. He sent Malone postcards from different parts of the world. Malone pinned them on the wall next to his desk.
Other than that, things turned back to normal at the shop. Malone did his shady deals, and the cops came around, nosing in the backlot. But one thing changed: I stopped laughing at Big Jim’s jokes about Malone. I couldn’t stand Big Jim anymore.
***
Tom Darin Liskey spent nearly a decade working as a journalist in Venezuela, Argentina and Brazil.
