The Great Catsby (A NOLA Tail Mystery Book 1) by B.K. Baxter

Author:B.K. Baxter [Baxter, B.K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BrixBaxter Publishing
Published: 2020-05-29T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

The exterior of American Auto Garage was painted red, white, and blue, no doubt in homage to our nation’s colors. Why it was patriotic to get your automobile serviced, I had no idea, but the little slice of Americana that was the auto garage was neatly kept and very clean. It seemed the owner ran a tight ship.

I got a glimpse of said owner when I walked through the front doors and stepped up to the service desk.

“You got an appointment?” the bald man behind the counter asked. He was a wall of muscle with piercing blue eyes. A jagged scar ran from his right cheek to a spot behind his chin. In his mid-fifties, he had an unmistakable air of sternness.

“Yes, uh, Jeff,” I said, reading the name patch on his pristine coveralls.

“Folks around here call me Scar, which means you ain’t from around here.” He eyed me. “If you just came down here to get your crime scene jollies, you can take yourself elsewhere.”

I swallowed hard. “I need an oil change. And I am from around here now, technically. I live in the big house off Beechum Road.”

Scar grunted. “Pull your car into bay two. If I find out your oil don’t need changing, I’ll refuse you service the next time you come in.”

I hurried outside and hopped into my car, piloting it into the garage bay as commanded. It was clear that Scar did not play around, and frankly, I was already terrified of the big man.

A tall, attractive young man in tight blue coveralls guided me in with hand signals so that the car would be correctly positioned on the lift. Climbing out of my car, I confirmed his name was Jimmy, per his name patch, as he looked down at a clipboard, his longish blond hair falling in waves around his striking face. “Oil change, right?”

“Yep. Although I always get my oil changes promptly as the manufacturer suggests, so the oil might not seem very dirty…” I trailed off, hoping what I said was enough to prevent the owner from sanctioning me.

He gave me a crooked smile that lit up his face, and I decided “The Hunk” wasn’t a misnomer, at least in terms of his physical attractiveness. I also noticed the knuckles on his right hand were tattooed in an intricate vine pattern. I could also see the hint of another tattoo creeping up his neck, the bulk of which was hidden by the coveralls.

“Most folks wait in the waiting room,” he said, pointing out the glass-walled reception area where a line of plastic folding chairs stood in front of a console television so old, it might have been the first one ever built.

“I think I’ll stay out here if you don’t mind. The guy in there is just a little intimidating.” And Mardi Gras is just a little parade.

Chuckling, Jimmy waved his hand as if waving away my worries. “He comes off as hard, but he’s got a good heart. Was a sergeant in the Iraq War, and they used to ask him how come he never sweat out there in the desert.

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