“We came not only so he could meet you, but to see if you had any information about his dad, so he could maybe research his paternal side too.”
“Your dad’s dead,” Stan announced abruptly, making me cringe. Thank God I’d already told Pick this so it wasn’t too startling, but fuck. Our uncle had never bothered with subtlety, and he sure didn’t now, either.
“Didn’t know his real name, just what Polly called him. Chaz.”
“Yeah,” Pick murmured, disappointment at the dead end glimmering in his eye. “That’s what Asher told me.”
“There wasn’t much worth knowing, anyway; he was a no-account drunk,” Stan went on. “He was never going to go anywhere past that repair shop where he worked on Bullview Road.”
Pick suddenly perked to attention. “You mean Murphy’s Repair Shop?”
“Yeah.” Stan snapped his fingers. “That place.”
The oddest expression entered Pick’s face. “Holy fuck,” he murmured, sounding stunned.
“What?” I had to ask. “Have you heard of it?”
He turned to me, more looking through me than at me. Shock made his pupils dilate and lips part. “I used to work there,” he said.
So that’s why we’d driven to Murphy’s Repair Shop. Pick told me the owner had run the place for nearly forty years; he’d probably remember an employee named Chaz.
As we exited the Mustang, I followed Pick to an opened bay door where Luke Bryan’s voice wailed from a radio about stripping it down and returning to the simpler life. Pick
nudged a pair of ragged boots that were sticking out from under an old Chevy truck.
“Hey. Murph around?”
The boots moved and rolled out until we could see the grease-stained face of the worker. “Well, hey. The prodigal son returns. You coming back to work for us again, Pick?”
Pick merely shook his head. “Just looking to chat with Murphy today.”
The mechanic tipped his head to the right. “In his office. Go on in.”
“Thanks, man.”
Pick strolled that way, so I followed. The door to the glassed-in office was open, and even though it was cold outside a small oscillating fan whirled slowly on top of a paper-stacked desk. The man sitting behind it looked to be slimmer and taller with stooped shoulders. He had his glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he read something on a clipboard in his hand.
Rapping his knuckles on the doorframe, Pick called, “Hey, Murph. You got a minute?”
The older man looked up, his bushy gray brows arching in surprise. “Hey! If it isn’t Patrick. Come on in, kid. I always have a minute for you.”
Pick stepped in far enough to allow me room inside with him. After glancing at me, he turned to his old boss. “You’ve owned this place a long time, haven’t you?”
“Forty years next summer, why you asking? Want to buy it from under me? Hell, shoot me a decent price, and I’ll consider it. Eh?”
“Aww.” Pick chuckled and waved a hand. “No. I’m too busy with the club to tinker with cars anymore.”
A fond smile layered itself across Murphy’s face as he sat back in his seat. “You used to love tinkering with cars if I remember right.”
“Still do. But just my own now. I don’t want to make a business out of it.”
“Then what’d you come down here for if you don’t want to work for me again, or buy me out, and you can take care of your own automobiles?” He glanced at me, and leaned back deeper in his chair as he considered me. “You want me to hire this thing here?” When his gaze landed on my hands, he snorted. “Doesn’t look like he’s had grease under his fingernails a day in his life.”
“No. He...” Pick glanced at me. “This is my brother. He’s been helping me with a little research, finding someone, and oddly enough, our trail led us here to one of your employees back...twenty-five, twenty-six years ago.”
Something odd flashed across Murphy’s face before he sat forward, suddenly interested. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Pick wiped his hand off on his thighs. “All I know is the guy went by the name Chaz, and he was killed here, or near here, by a drive-by shooting possibly.”