4th of July

Chapter 24

I COASTED INTO A filling station right inside the limits of Half Moon Bay. It was an indie that had somehow avoided takeover by the oil conglomerates, a rustic place with a galvanized-steel canopy over the tanks and a hand-lettered sign over the office door: Man in the Moon Garage.

A sandy-haired guy looking to be in his late twenties wiped his hands on a rag and approached as I got out of the car to work a cramp out of my bum leg.

We had a brief exchange about octane, then I headed toward the soda machine in front of the office. I looked around the side yard, a lot full of sticker weeds, teetering towers of worn-out tires, and a few beached old junkers.

I’d just lifted a cold can of Diet Coke to my lips when I noticed a car in the shadows of the garage that made my heart do a little dance.

It was a bronze-colored ’81 Pontiac Bonneville, the twin of the car my uncle Dougie had owned when I was in high school. I wandered over and peered into the passenger compartment, then I looked under the open hood. The battery was encrusted, and mice had eaten the spark plug wires, but to my eyes the innards looked clean.

I had an idea.

As I handed my credit card to the gas station attendant, I pointed a thumb back over my shoulder and asked, “Is that old Bonneville for sale?”

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” He grinned at me from under the bill of his cap. He balanced a clipboard against a denim thigh, ran the slider over my card, then turned the sales slip around for me to sign.

“My uncle bought a car like that the year it came out.”

“No kidding? It’s a classic, all right.”

“Does it run?”

“It will. I’m working on it now. The tranny’s in good shape. Needs a new starter motor, alternator, a little this and a little that.”

“Actually, I’d like to fool around with the engine myself. Kind of a project, you know?”

The gas station guy grinned again and seemed pleased by the idea. He told me to make him an offer, and I put up four fingers. He said, “You wish. That car’s worth a thousand if it’s worth a nickel.”

I held up the flat of my hand, five fingers waggling in the breeze.

“Five hundred bucks is my limit for a pig in a poke.”

The kid thought about it for a long moment, making me realize how much I wanted that car. I was about to up the ante when he said, “Okay, but it’s ‘as is,’ you understand. No guarantees.”

“You’ve got the manual?”

“It’s in the glove box. And I’ll throw in a socket wrench and a couple of screwdrivers.”

“Deal,” I said.

We high-fived, low-fived, bopped our fists, and shook on it.

“I’m Keith Howard, by the way.”

“And I’m Lindsay Boxer.”

“So, where am I delivering this heap, Lindsay?”

It was my turn to grin. Caveat emptor, indeed. I gave Keith my sister’s address and directions on how to get there.

“Go up the hill, then turn onto Miramontes and then onto Sea View. It’s a blue house on the right, second one in from the end of the road.”

Keith nodded. “I’ll drop it by day after tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

“Excellent,” I said, climbing back into the Explorer. Keith cocked his head and flashed me a flirtatious look.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere, Lindsay?”

“No,” I said, laughing. “But nice try.” The gas station guy was coming on to me! I was old enough to be his . . . big sister.

The kid laughed along with me.

“Well, anyway, Lindsay. Call me anytime if you need me to bring over an engine hoist or whatever.”

“Okay, I’ll do that,” I said, meaning just the opposite. But I was still smiling as I honked the horn good-bye.