Two from the Heart(37)

“Mind if I take a look?” he blurts out.

Pico gives the pale gringo a dubious stare. “You know trucks, amigo?”

“I know electronics… a bit.”

With a suspicious look, Pico hands over the greasy device. Bron takes the unit eagerly and presses a few buttons. He walks to the front of the truck and instinctively grabs a socket wrench. He hesitates, then nods toward the engine.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

“Go nuts,” Pico says, “but if you fry anything, it’s your ass.”

Bron leans over the engine compartment. With a deft touch he unbolts a black plastic dust cover, exposing three huge plastic connectors, each with a thick bundle of multicolored wires. Bron pops the connectors free one at a time.

He studies the wiring pattern, his mind clicking a million miles an hour. He follows a red wire as thin as a blood vessel. He pulls a pen out of his pocket and probes gently into a tiny socket. He plugs the wiring connectors back in with three satisfying snaps. He turns his head to the side and calls to Pico.

“Try it now.”

Pico reaches inside the cab and cranks the ignition key. The engine fires up. Luke and Timo lean back on the Miata and applaud.

“Bad connection in the PCU,” Bron says. “The analyzers don’t always pick it up.” He closes the hood. “My name’s Tyler, by the way.”

“Drinking buddy of ours,” says Timo, proudly.

“Well, I say he’s a goddamn wizard,” says Pico. He looks at Bron. “Appreciate the help.”

Luke gives the Miata one last pat. “Okay. Show’s over. Let’s get a beer.” Bron, Luke, and Timo head out of the garage. “Put a rush on those parts, okay, Pico?”

“Like I told you—I already did.”

“Then maybe put a rush on the rush.”

“Maybe next time, buy American,” says Pico. Then, “Hey… Tyler.” Bron stops and turns.

“You looking for a job?” Pico wipes his hands with a greasy rag. “I could use somebody who knows these goddamn computers. The pay sucks and so do the hours.”

Tyler starts to laugh—but wait a minute. He now owes Grandpa about six hundred bucks for lodging, not counting the complementary breakfasts. He’s been letting Luke and Timo pay for sandwiches and beer, along with depleting their supply of tequila and margarita mix.

This is crazy, Bron thinks. I’ve never worked for anybody in my life. Never even applied for a job.

But the thing is… he actually needs the money. He can’t believe what he’s saying until he actually hears the words come out of his mouth: “Absolutely. When do I start?”





Chapter 14


The next night


Tyler peels off his overalls and hangs them on a hook behind the office door. He scrubs as much of the grease off his hands and forearms as he can in the utility sink and heads out of the garage. He presses the button of the heavy overhead door so that it closes behind him, leaving a solitary work light casting a dim glow over tool chests and the still-dismantled Miata.

One oxygen sensor replacement. Two power-train control module adjustments. And three old-fashioned oil changes. Not a bad day’s effort. And it actually felt good to work with his hand instead of his head for a change.

It’s eight o’clock. The Christmas lights are on up and down the street, but Bron heads for the brightest light around—the neon sign over the Desert Diner, smack in the middle of town. His stomach is growling—and with a cash advance from Pico on his eleven-dollars-an-hour wages, the billionaire can finally pay for his own dinner.

The diner is small—about the length of a train car, with a row of booths along the window side and a counter facing the kitchen. Nothing here has been updated since the 1950s, except the jukebox in the far corner, which was updated a couple of decades later. Mixed in with the sound of clanking plates and the buzz of conversation, Bron can make out the bouncy chorus of “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.”

The place is packed. In fact, it looks like just about everybody in town is here. The handwritten sign up front reads, PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF. WE’LL FIND YOU EVENTUALLY. Bron takes a small table just inside the door, which gives him a view down the entire length of the place.

Maria the bank teller is moonlighting—waiting tables down at the other end. Her bank boss is at one of the counter stools, leaning over a bowl of chili. Grandpa is holding court with a posse of other guys in their seventies. Lots of laughing. Not many teeth. Grandpa sees Bron and tips his beer. Bron nods and raises his water glass, which is the only thing on his table at the moment.

Just as he turns to see if there’s anybody around to help him out, a waitress spins out of the kitchen, grabs a laminated menu, and plops it in front of him. She’s moving so fast she’s a blur in his peripheral view. But even so, Bron can tell she’s somebody he’s never seen before.

“Thanks,” he says, “I was just about to—”

“Order up!” The cook yells from the smoky kitchen as he pushes two heaping plates onto the pass. Now the jumpy waitress is torn: pick up the waiting food or take Bron’s order. She glances at the sweaty cook, who wears a red bandana across his forehead like a pirate. He gives her a death stare.

No contest.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says to Bron. “Be right back, I promise!” She’s calling over her shoulder as she heads for the waiting food, and in one blink, Bron takes a mental snapshot so vivid he could describe her to a police sketch artist.