Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(38)

He stopped looking me over quite so obviously and nodded across the garage. “He’s working. Might not want to bother him. Some friendly advice.”

I found Buster halfway under a blue Acura coupe. He was horizontal on a wheeled creeper seat. Only his legs stuck out. I could tell it was him because he always wore the same beige Timberland work boots with a scuff in the left toe. I kicked his boot without bothering to be gentle. Buster wasn’t a gentle guy and he didn’t demand that quality in others.

A deep voice growled out from somewhere under the car. “Whoever did that better be here to tell me I won the fucking Powerball.”

“You won the fucking Powerball, Buster.”

“I know that voice. It haunts my dreams.” He rolled out from under the chassis and squinted up at me, a lit Camel cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. “Nikki Griffin, in the flesh? What brings you into the fancy part of town? Get lost coming off the freeway?”

“Tea at the Ritz,” I said. “Forgot the biscuits. Hoping you had a few to spare.”

He grinned, getting to his feet. It was a process. Buster was big. A year or two north of forty, he wore his hair in a black ponytail that matched up with a long black goatee. Tattoos all over his bare forearms and probably plenty more elsewhere. He must have been six foot five, over 250. The kind of guy that would make some people cross the street at night. “What do you want?” he asked. “Need your carbs cleaned? New spark plugs?”

“Was hoping for coffee.”

“Coffee we can do.”

Cigarette still in his mouth, he started toward the front of the shop, moving with a slight limp. “Jimmy!” he shouted. “Goin’ on break. Anyone who needs me, tell ’em to hold their breath and count to a billion backwards.”

The skinny mechanic who had pointed me over nodded. “Sure, Buster.”

“Oh, and Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“You keep checking out this girl’s ass, and she’ll kick your skinny worthless tail a hell of a lot worse than I will, and twice as fast.”



* * *



Buster’s office was a tiny, claustrophobic space off the garage. Maybe eight feet by eight feet. It was one of the messiest rooms I’d ever been in. Almost literally not a square inch of flat space. He didn’t seem to believe in file cabinets, so there were stacks of papers almost to the ceiling. Fluorescent lighting, a dirty linoleum floor. A metal desk took up a chunk of the small space, a big executive-style leather chair on the far side, a metal folding chair on the other. A Mr. Coffee machine perched precariously on a slanted stack of coffee-stained papers. Cigarette butts and ash everywhere. I had to smile. The fact that the place hadn’t burned down yet was astounding.

“Buster,” I said. “You should fire the maid. She’s slacking off.”

He laughed. A big, booming laugh that filled the office even more than the papers. “Somehow I don’t see a maid working out here.” He went over to the coffee machine and dumped in ground coffee from a giant red forty-eight-ounce container and flicked the button. An orange light came on and, a second later, unhealthy hissing and sputtering noises issued from the machine. “See, Nikki? Only the red-carpet treatment for you.” He smirked crookedly my way. “A fresh pot for a fresh gal.”

I had to laugh. “Jesus, I thought people stopped buying Folgers in 1950-something.”

Buster sat back, shoving a stack of papers across the desk to make room for a ponderous elbow. “Well, this is how the other half lives, out here in the sticks. Folgers and Styrofoam cups. You’ve been spoiled rotten by those Berkeley tree huggers, I can see. Probably gone vegan by now.”

“Speaking of spoiled, when’d you get the exec chair? Now all you need is a corner office. Beautiful views out over the Vallejo skyline.”

He grinned. “Fancy, eh? When I hit forty, my back started to go. Too much time on the damn floor. The folding shit wasn’t doing it no more.” The coffee machine gave a final, wheezing sputter, and he poured two full cups. Styrofoam, true to his word. He took his cup and lit another cigarette, filling the tiny space with smoke. “If you need any soy milk or whatever, I know a great place about thirty miles down the street.” He stretched back comfortably in his chair and scratched the stubble on his neck. “They call it, what is it again? San Francisco.”

I laughed and took a sip. The coffee was hot. Its only redeeming quality, but an important one. “I’m getting you a new coffee machine for Christmas. This one’s gonna die before you do.”

I’d met Buster through, of all people, his ex-wife. His fourth ex-wife. She was the one who had hired me, ironically. The dissolution of his first three marriages had taught Buster that lawyers had their uses. He’d also learned, the hard way, that every divorce divided his net worth by half, not to mention child support. So, by the fourth he’d decided to play hardball. His lawyer had his marching orders. Apparently, Buster had told him if he budged an inch in the negotiations, Buster would be standing in his living room that night, wanting to ask why. Buster was a big, scary guy. His lawyer wasn’t backing down, come hell or high water.

I’d been hired to communicate to Buster, delicately, that lawyers were all well and good, or would have been, if his about-to-be-ex-wife hadn’t found out that he ran a thriving chop shop out of his garage. I didn’t want to know exactly how many of the Bay Area’s missing cars passed through Buster’s World Class each year, but I figured he put most auto dealerships to shame. I’d had to explain to him that it was better not to fight the divorce in court. The marriage hadn’t gone well. There was a surplus of ill will. He didn’t want his wife talking about his side business, which she most definitely would.