No Sad Songs by Frank Morelli

Author:Frank Morelli [Frank Morelli]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780989908740
Publisher: Fish Out of Water Books
Published: 2018-02-20T05:00:00+00:00

13

TRANS-AMBUSH

It was only noon but Perdomo gave me the rest of the day off, which was pretty generous of him considering Saturdays are busy at the shop. “Don’t worry about it,” he told me as I finished wiping out the spill tray under the soda fountain. Thing’s always sticky as hell. “You look stressed, Gabe. Enjoy the afternoon. Maybe take that vampire girlfriend of yours to a double feature.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I had told him. What I really wanted to say was, “What the hell is a double feature, old man? It’s the nineties for God’s sake. Do you see any girls walking in here after school in poodle skirts and freaking bobby socks?” But I figured that might have jeopardized my afternoon off, so I thanked him and clocked out.

“Don’t worry about me, Gabe,” he said as I pushed through the front doors. “I been running this place forty years. I do it in my sleep.” Trust me, there was no worry—at least not about Perdomo.

Officer Patterson is another story. It’s been a few days and I still haven’t told John or Sofia I’d seen secret agent man snooping around outside the shop. That would only lead to further lectures and even more detailed fablery from my best friend. I think jail might be a better option.

The story still leads the local news. Every time I see a report, there’s little Timmy Mullins with a big cast on his arm and his gap-toothed, toddler grin. If the situation were different I might find him adorable like the rest of the saps in this town. Instead, every time I see him on screen, I get the urge to race around the block to his house, pick him up like a human-sized pigskin, and punt him into the cheap seats—on third down. But that’s just me. Maybe I’m biased.

The police haven’t named a suspect yet, which makes me feel a little queasy every time I think about it—because I’m pretty sure Officer Patterson wasn’t lurking outside the Perdomo’s parking lot so he could catch up on his reading. Somehow I know I haven’t shared my last conversation with the guy, and each time I look at the macaroni collage John and I constructed on the Trans-Am’s fender, I’m reminded of it. And I’m powerless.

The only thing I can think to do is take another stab in the old LoScuda body shop. This time I’ll keep it in the family. No John. I don’t have patience for Tinker Toys today. I ask Nick.

He’s in the bathroom, but the door’s open a crack so I barge in without knocking. He’s in front of the sink shaving—which is weird for Nick—and I see his eyes shoot to my reflection in the mirror. There’s a glob of shaving cream encrusted with tiny flecks of spent beard hanging off one of his earlobes. A wet trail of the stuff dribbles down the side of his neck and piles itself on the stained collar of his tee shirt.

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