“Jesus, I hope they got a ’25 Dodge.”
Behind the shed a door banged. A specter of a man came through the dark shed. Thin, dirty, oily skin tight against stringy muscles. One eye was gone, and the raw, uncovered socket squirmed with eye muscles when his good eye moved. His jeans and shirt were thick and shiny with old grease, and his hands cracked and lined and cut. His heavy, pouting underlip hung out sullenly.
Tom asked, “You the boss?”
The one eye glared. “I work for the boss,” he said sullenly.
“Whatcha want?”
“Got a wrecked ’25 Dodge? We need a con-rod.”
“I don’t know. If the boss was here he could tell ya—but he ain’t here. He’s went home.”
“Can we look an’ see ?”
The man blew his nose into the palm of his hand and wiped his hand on his trousers. “You from hereabouts?”
“Come from east—goin’ west.”