He cocks his head, then uses his grease rag to wipe the sweat from his neck, but only manages to smear grease on the one area that didn’t have any yet. He whistles. “What did you do?”
I grind my teeth together. Not at Dickie. At the assholes who thought it would be funny to hide my bike on the roof of the school and let out the air in the tires. Privileged people don’t understand what a big thing having your own transportation can be, even if it is only two wheels. “Just tell me you have good news on the truck.” I worry over my lip as I wait for his answer. A couple of days ago, the truck wouldn’t start, so I had Dickie tow it here. I know he’ll give me a fair price, but what I really don’t want to hear is that my father’s ancient truck can’t be salvaged. There’s zero chance of me affording a new ride right now.
Dickie presses his lips together again, and I know it can’t be good news. I slip one of my book bag straps off and bring my bag around to the front. When I was avoiding the Stone, Wyatt, and Lucas show in the cafeteria, I finally had a chance to look at the paperwork I’d stuffed in that morning and believe it or not, I found a receipt from Dickie’s that’s a few years old. I don’t know what I’m trying to do with it. I’m just grasping at straws.
I scan the paperwork again. “It looks like you fixed the muffler a few years back.”
Dickie peeks at me. His eyes have a dull shine to them, and not a good one. Almost like I can see the cataracts taking his vision away right before my eyes. The look he gives me tells me everything I need to know. You ever just have someone older look at you like you’re a little kid? That’s when I know I’m being naïve, and worse, he feels bad for me because of it.
“Fuck,” I sigh.
“Sorry, kid.”
“What is it then?” I ask tentatively. Dickie’s the best mechanic I know, but you know, maybe someone else could do something. Not that I could afford to pay them either.
“It’s the engine, Dakota.” He shuffles toward another bay in the garage, and I follow after him. He smacks the side of my father’s old truck a few times, and I swear some of the rust falls to the garage floor like confetti. “Seeing as how it’s a classic, it’s gonna cost you more than it’s worth.”
To Dickie, every car older than this millennia is a classic. My father’s truck is a 1979 Ford. Yes, it’s old as shit, but it’s not the kind of car you’re going to see at a classic car show or anything. I have no doubt he’s right though.
I lean against one of the wood beams spaced throughout the garage and sigh. What the fuck am I going to do now? Sure, riding the bike is okay, but I thought it was only temporary.
“Talk to me, Dakota. What’s going on with the bitch?”
The bitch is none other than my stepmother, Marilyn. The one my father had to have. At times, I thought it was more about getting something a Jacobs had, and I’m probably not too far off. Normally, I’d laugh, but she ended up fucking me over, so I’m not in a laughing mood.
I shrug. “She cleaned out the accounts. Dad has a life insurance policy, but it’s not worth much. The insurance company won’t release the money because he’s still listed as missing and not—” I can’t even say the words. You ever think something is probably true, but you just can’t believe it. Saying it would be believing it, and I’m not ready. “If the life insurance ever decides to pay out, I don’t know if I would get it anyway. She’s married to him, and if my father had a will, I can’t find it.”
“I oughtta track her down and whip that money out of her until she’s spitting quarters.”
Can’t say I disagree with the sentiment. I can add Stone’s name to his list. If he’s taking hit orders, it would be a shame to leave his name off. Coming to Saint Clary’s feels like a direct attack. I just don’t know what game he’s playing. With the Wilders and the Jacobs, it’s always something though.
Dickie takes his hat off, scratches his balding head, then puts it back on. “About the only thing I can do is junk it and give you the money. It won’t be much, but it’ll be something. I’ll also put air in your bike tires and keep a look out for a cheap car.”
I hold out my hand, and he puts his blistered fingers in mine. “That’s more than enough,” I tell him. I’m not Dickie’s charity case nor would I ever want to be. His wife died many years ago, and as soon as his kids were old enough, they got the fuck out of Clary. I used to blame them, but I don’t anymore. From what I can tell, Clary is a dead end where all the stragglers end up. I want more for me than that. I always have. That’s where the treasure dream came in, but without my father… I have no idea if that’s even a possibility anymore.
“Hear anything from Lionel?”
I kick the cracked concrete at my feet. The last I heard from the Chief of Police was at the press conference, but Dickie asks me every time he sees me in case something’s changed. “Not lately,” I say, almost refusing to believe that I’m truly in this search by myself. Dickie would help if
