they deserved each other. I could have punched Rusty's teeth in, but I figured, like my momma used to say, karma will get them. People who do crap like this will get theirs someday. I didn't want to have anything else to do with them, even to the point of not bloodying my knuckles on Rusty's lying face.
'So I understand how you feel about all this, Tyrone, and all I can say is, you'll get over it eventually. It's terrible now, but someday, it won't seem so bad.'
'Yeah? You still remember what happened to you pretty good.'
'I didn't say you'd
There was silence. Howard waited, to see if they were done, if he should leave or if the boy wanted to talk more. Finally, Tyrone said, 'So, what happened to them? Rusty and Lizbeth. Did karma get them? They get run over by a bus or like that?'
Howard grinned. 'Not exactly. They got married right after graduation. Went to college. He's now a medical doctor, she's an English professor, they have three kids, and according to my relatives back home who keep me up to date about such things, they have a wonderful marriage.'
'So much for cosmic revenge.'
'Thing with karma is, it might take a couple of lifetimes to catch up with you,' Howard said.
'Oh, good.'
'What's done is done, Ty. You can't take back what you saw and heard, and if you could arrange to drop a piano on Bella and her new friend, it really wouldn't make you feel any better. Revenge hardly ever brings peace with it. Besides, if Lizbeth and I hadn't split, I'd never have met and married your mother. I figure I came out way ahead on the deal. No comparison.' He smiled.
He got a small smile back from his son.
'You gonna eat supper?'
'I don't think so. I'm really not hungry.'
'Okay. I'll cover it with Mom.'
'Thanks, Dad. And, uh, Dad? Thanks for telling me the story.'
'You're welcome, son.'
Chapter Twenty-Six
Michaels stood in the doorway to his garage, looking at the larger of his two big metal tool caddies. His most recent project car, the Plymouth Prowler, was gone, sold within a couple of days after he'd gotten it running right. He'd cleaned it up, and had taken it out only a few times, top up — it had been too cold and wet to drive the little convertible the way it was meant to be enjoyed — before his phone had rung with a potential buyer. That was how most of these things were done among the people he knew who restored old cars. Somebody told a friend, who told somebody else that this guy had a project car that was close to being finished, and if you were interested, you didn't want to wait for an ad on the net, because by then it would be too late.
Michaels smiled and walked back into the house. Might as well see what he had for supper.
In the kitchen, he dug around in the freezer and came up with a choice of Gardenburgers or teriyaki chicken sandwiches. He shrugged. The Gardenburger was going to get freezer-burned if he didn't eat it pretty soon, but hell with it, he wanted the chicken. He tore the plastic bag to vent, and stuck the sandwich into the microwave to thaw.
So, that was how it had gone. The phone had rung one evening, and a man with a lot of money who knew somebody who knew somebody asked about the Prowler.
Michaels figured out what the car had cost him, what the parts had added to that, and how much labor it had taken him to rebuild the engine and the transmission and linkage and bodywork. He added thirty percent to that, and named a figure.
The potential buyer agreed with the number so fast that Alex realized he could have asked for more. Then again, he didn't restore old cars to make a living — although it was nice to know that if he ever decided to chuck Net Force he probably could survive that way. All you needed was a garage and some tools, and he already had those…
The microwave began its repetitive cheep, and as he reached for it, the phone also called him.
'Hello?'
'Uh, yeah, hello? I'm looking for Alex Michaels. The guy who does car stuff?'
Well, think of the Devil. 'You found him.'
'Oh, hey. My name is Greg Scates, I got your name from Todd Jackson.'
Todd Jackson was the man who had bought the Prowler. 'How are you, Mr. Scates? What can I do for you?'
'Well, uh, I've got an old car Todd thinks you might be interested in.'
'What kind of car?'
'It's a Mazda MX-5, a 1995.'
Michaels's eyebrows went up. MX-5 was better known in the U.S. as the Miata. A little drop-top two-seater, a lot smaller than the Prowler. He wasn't a big fan of Japanese hardware — he liked the big Detroit iron — but a Miata? He'd always thought those were on a par with the little MG Midgets. Fun.
And in ‘95 they still had the flip-out headlights too. Barn doors, they called them.
'So, tell me a little about the car.'
'1 have to be honest with you. Mr. Michaels, I don't know a lot about it. It belonged to my father, who passed away in November. He bought the car new after I'd left home. He drove it for a few months, but he didn't really have the reflexes for it — my mother was afraid he was gonna kill himself in it — so after a while, he put it in storage.'
Interesting. 'What kind of shape is it in?'
'I can't really say. Dad pulled the tires off it and put the car up on jacks in his garage — my folks live down in Fredericksburg — he drained all the fluids out of it, coaled everything with Armor-All and some kind of grease, then put a cover over it. The tires are in plastic bags in the garage. As far as I know, it's been sitting like that for about sixteen years.'
Michaels felt a surge of interest. You heard about these things, low-or-no-mileage cars stored in somebody's barn for future sale. He'd never happened across one himself, but it was a common fantasy among car people — a rare model in near-mint condition, inherited by some relative who didn't have a clue what it was worth and who'd sell it for pocket change.
He moved to the kitchen computer terminal, next to the pantry, and called up the Classic Book. Even though the car was only sixteen and technically not a classic, it would be in there. Given the average half-life of cars since the eighties, sixteen was fairly old.
Mazda, Mazda, ah, there it was…
'So, what do you figure the car is worth, Mr. Scates?'
'Greg, please. I don't know. But Todd says if you're interested, you'll offer me a fair price.'
Michaels looked at the computer readout. Hmm. Classic Book said the little two-seater convertible wasn't cheap if it was a ‘95 in good condition. And one that had been on jacks, assuming it was in better shape for being stored, would be worth even more. Still, he could swing it, given what he'd made on the Prowler. He'd have to see it first, of course.
'I'm interested, Greg. I'd like to take a look at it. But I'm not going to be able to get to Fredericksburg until Saturday. Can you sit on it that long?'
'No problem. It's been in the garage for years, it can wait a couple of more days.'
Michaels nodded at the unseen speaker. 'Good.'
He got directions and a time, then hung up.
