“Take care of your stuff!” he yells after me.
Yes, of course. I’ll definitely do that because I certainly asked them to steal my bike, hide it, and then leave me a map to find where it was.
The tires bang against the front stone steps as I lead it down. As soon as I hit flat cement, I throw my leg over and start to pedal when something doesn’t feel right. I frown down at it, and as soon as I see the tires my shoulders sag. Bastards let the air out. My throat gets scratchy, but I haven’t cried since my father went missing, so I’m not going to waste them on Stone and his cronies. I get back off the bike and point it toward Dickie’s garage. Hell, I was headed there anyway. I might as well add fixing a bike to the bill I already can’t pay.
When I turn the corner of the short street to head down Prospector Boulevard, the glint of silver catches my eye. By the time I turn, all I see is the back end of a silver car, rolling in the opposite direction.
3
It takes me a lot longer than I wanted to get to Dickie’s in the afternoon heat. I stop off at a tiny grocery store to sip from the fountain that I know is near the bathrooms just to cool off for a bit before heading back out into the blazing sun. By the time I make it to Dickie’s Garage, literally the last building before there’s nothing, I’m drenched in sweat and breathing heavy.
“Hello?” I call out. There’s no telling where Dickie could be. Under a car, inside a car, in the office. Ever since he had a heart attack one day when a customer snuck up on him, I’ve called out to him when I first arrive. And by the way, when I say “snuck up on”, I literally just mean he entered the garage like a normal person asking if his car was finished being serviced.
What can I say? Dickie’s old.
He also happens to be my father’s best friend and former partner.
The smell of grease and stale cigarette smoke hits me as soon as I walk in farther. The clank of metal on metal of a tool fitting around a part clinks before wheels rolling on concrete sound. “Over here,” he calls out.
I walk around a white Dodge Caravan that’s up on lifts and peek around a tan sedan that Dickie’s just now rolled out from under. He narrows his gaze when he sees me, and as soon as he recognizes my face, he smiles. He’s missing a few teeth in the front, and he’s about as aged as aged can be. He’s lived a hard life of manual labor and then didn’t treat himself any better on top of that with the cigarettes and alcohol, even though he damn well knows he shouldn’t be smoking anymore with his heart the way it is.
He stands up slowly, taking his time as his knees creak, belying his age. “Dakota, there you are.” He limps over to me, brushing a stubbly kiss to the top of my head. He has grease stains across his cheeks and hands. The rag he uses to wipe it off only smears the brown-black over his skin because there’s enough grease already on the ratty old piece of cloth that he could probably cover his whole body with it.
My stomach tightens. Dickie’s one of the OG’s of Clary. He owned the only garage in town for many years before NAPA came in twenty miles away. Like my father, Dickie spent any spare minute he could in the Superstitions with a pick axe and a dream. He and my father worked together for years until Dickie had his heart attack and couldn’t actually go out searching anymore. To me, Dickie is one of the last true blue treasure hunters. When he goes, who’s going to send the tourists on a wild goose chase through the unforgiving terrain?
Yeah, I know. We’re fucked up around here, but someone from Clary deserves to find the gold. Not a damn outsider, and certainly not the fucking Jacobs.
I squeeze my eyes shut as soon as I recognize my father’s words flit through my brain. It’s harder not knowing what happened to him.
“How’s my sweetheart doing?”
I groan. “My bike’s fucked. I tried to find paperwork on the truck, and I’m...” I gaze up at him warily. “...hoping you have good news.”
Dickie presses his lips together. His salt and pepper stubble sticks out like prickers on a cactus. His skin is about as weathered as it can get, almost like dirty leather. Creases and wrinkles dot the landscape of his face like tumbleweeds through the desert. That’s what years of baking in the sun and thinking you’re above sunscreen gets you. The old man clicks his tongue as he lowers himself to a grease-stained stool. He leans against a workbench and breathes in. His breath catches, bringing on a coughing fit that lasts about thirty seconds.
I go to the corner and grab a bottle of water out of a dirty fridge in the back. “Dickie,” I say, trying not to sound chastising. “You know you’ve got to give the nicotine up.”
He gives me that look that says, Little girl, I’m about three times your age and need your life advice like I need a cactus spine up my ass.
He doesn’t say it though. He just takes the water from me, downs half of it, and then plops the bottle down on the workbench. “You should get yourself one of these, Dakota. You look like you walked yourself here from Texas.”
“Ha. Ha.” But I’m not about to pass up that offer. I’m thirsty as hell. I grab myself a water and then wave him out to my bike that I leaned against the side of his garage when I
