Tinkerbell on Walkabout (2 page)

“That’s
great.”

“It’s too
slow for my partner, though. Mike’s
been talking about going back down to the Bay Area, too. Taking his family
someplace more diverse.”

“Tell him to come on down. I’m sure my dad could set him up
with a job.”

“He should set
you
up with a job. Why don’t you let him? You really should
be a cop, Gina. Aren’t you
willing to give the Academy another try?”

“Sure, but I doubt the Academy would give
me
another
try. I was bad at following orders—remember? And unable to lift fully grown men
given to a high fat diet.”

“So what’s
next?”

“Wray’s Wrecks. I’d still like a carburetor.”

Bob Wray turns out to be a tall, bear-like black man who
could be thirty-five or sixty. There is a little gray in his hair and a bald
spot in the crown of his head, but his face is ageless except for a tiny set of
pleats between his brows. These give him a quizzical expression, as if he’s waiting for the punch line to a
long and convoluted joke.

Bob leads us through the wrecking yard to the ‘Motorcycle
Department.’ From the triple-bay garage with its large office and storage room,
we cross a gravel parking lot to a wide gate in the chain link fence that
encloses the vehicular debris. A stand of photinia fronts the yard, forming a
thick hedge that completely screens it from the road.

Inside the fence, the impression of extreme orderliness is
doubled. Each wreck occupies a spot with enough clearance for someone to
comfortably stroll around it. The distance between the cars is exact and
unvarying.

The Motorcycle Department is as neat as the rest of the
place except for the partially dismantled Electro-Glide that sits on a
workbench in front of a neat white stucco cottage with a royal blue roof, door,
and window frames. A guy is working on the bike, removing parts from the
Shovelhead engine. Like Bob, he’s
wearing royal blue coveralls and a matching baseball cap with the Wray’s Wrecks logo on the front.

When he turns to face us, I recognize him. He’s Perry Dixon,
a high school classmate. Not a member of the misfit brigade, but a jock . . .
and our sometime tormentor. Perry had been a hanger-on, a follower rather than
a leader. He never hurled insults, just stood mutely by, grinning, while his buddies
heaped on abuse. His job was delivering the parting semi-apologetic smile.

I promise myself I will not hold this against him, but there
is a split second in which I wish I’d
paid more attention when Mom lectured on the proper way to give the Evil Eye.

I say: “Hi, Perry. Remember me?”

“Tinkerbell, isn’t
it?” he asks, and smiles to take the sting out of the nickname, which he
bestowed upon me—God bless him. It’s
a reference to the fact that my given name—Gina Suzu Miyoko—is Japanese for “silver
bell temple.” At least he didn’t
shorten it to Tink.

“It’s Gina.”

He smiles again; looks at July. “Hey, Jules.”

“Hey, Perry. Got a Harley carb on you?”

“Sure. Didn’t
know you had a bike.”

“Bike’s
mine,” I say. “Carburetor’s
been sniffling a little. I’m
lining up replacements.”

He doesn’t
believe me. “
You
on a hog?”

“Don’t
say, ‘That’s a lot of bike
for such a little girl.’ Last
guy did that has tread marks down his back.”

He grins. “Still the same old Tink—mouth on legs.”

“You got to be so rude to my paying customers?” Bob asks
amiably. “Maybe
I
should find Miss Miyoko her carburetor.”

“I’ll do
it. What model you got—Softtail?” He’s teasing me.

I refuse to be riled. “’83 Super Glide II.”

“You know they make ’em with electronic ignition now,” he tells me as he wanders toward
the neat little stucco cottage.

“Electronic ignitions are for sissies,” I call after him,
then turn to Bob. “Spiffy operation you’ve got here. I don’t
think I’ve ever seen such a
tidy junkyard.”

Bob grins. “Why thank you. I pride myself on it. No reason
why a place that deals in wrecks has to
be
a wreck. Orderliness is next
to Godliness.”

“Hey, Bob,” says July, “you have some excitement around here
last night? We were out on the porch and saw all your lights go on, dogs going
nuts . . .”

Bob wags his head. “Guess you could call it excitement.
Something was messin’ around in the back corner of the lot. ’Coons, I think. I let the dogs out. That
pretty much took care of it.”

“This ought to do you.” Perry has emerged from the
cottage-cum-parts shed, holding a Harley carb that looks as if it’s been steam cleaned.

I buy it, paying less than I expect.

Sunday we spend at the river, then take in a movie with Lee
and July’s entire clan. Monday July has to testify in court, so I’m left to my
own devices.

I intend to check out the Forestry just so I can say I did,
but my carburetor is doing more than just sniffling. It has developed the
Harley equivalent of a killer head cold. I congratulate myself on having had
the prescience to pick up the carburetor, then realize I have none of the
necessary tools to install it.

I nurse the bike into the parking lot of Wray’s Wrecks where deceleration causes it to
lapse into a coma. I’m sorely
disappointed in my current
obereg
, which apparently does not cover
Harleys. I’ll have to raise
this issue with Mom, who assured me it had “good stuff” when she gave it to me.

Bob pokes his head out of his office with a frown on his
face. “That doesn’t sound good,” he says, then recognizes me. “Well, if it
isn’t July’s friend. Gina, right?”

“Yep, and as you can tell, I’ve got a problem. Old Boris
here just keeled over on me.”

He comes out into the yard, wiping his hands on a royal blue
rag and flashing a smile. “So, what’s ailing Boris?”

“He’s in dire need of bypass surgery and I left my scalpels
and forceps at home. Got any I can borrow, Doctor Bob?”

“Sure thing. Lemme set you up.”

He does just that, while I haul the listless bike into the
well-lit garage, which is every bit as neat as the rest of the place. I smell
motor oil and Borax, but little of the cold, gritty aroma most garages have.

As Bob lays out the tools I’ll need, I ask after the local
raccoon population. “You have any more trouble with them the last couple of
days?”

He gives me a thoughtful look, the pleats between his brows
deepening. “Well now, I’m not sure. That is, I’m not sure about it being coons.
You think coons could move one of these old wrecks?”

“
Move
one? As in ‘relocate?’”

“More like disarrange. I like things neat—”

“Gosh, Bob, I hadn’t noticed.”

He favors me with a wry grin. “Like I say: orderliness—”

“Next to Godliness,” I finish. “So someone disarranged some
of your cars? Kids playing pranks?”

He scratches around in his close-cropped hair. “Well, I’d think that, but usually pranksters try
to see how
much
they can get away with. Show off stuff. Not subtle. This was real subtle. Hell,
I don’t know if anyone else
would even notice.”

“Drove you nuts, didn’t it?” I guess.

He laughs. A big laugh that uses his considerable chest
cavity as a sounding board. “Got that right. It didn’t take that long to figure out something
was wrong, but figuring out
what
was wrong nearly gave me a nervous
tic.”

“So, what was wrong?”

He looks sheepish. “You’re gonna laugh.”

I cross my heart.

“One car was turned just a bit. You know—didn’t quite line
up with the others. That’s all. Makes me feel kind of silly saying it. Couldn’t
have been off by more than six inches.”

“Kind of a big job for raccoons. Sounds more like someone
who knows you is yanking your chain.”

“Yeah? Well, I may just have to do a little detective work
to figure it out. You need help with that carb?” He nods toward the Harley.

“Nah, I can handle it.”

“I bet.”

I’ve worked on the Harley for maybe half an hour when Perry
Dixon drops in. He stands in the office doorway, watching from where I suspect
he thinks he is invisible.

“Hey, Perry,” I say after a while. “I could use a hand with
this.”

In the bike’s rearview mirror, I see him jump.

“Sure, Tink. What d’you need?”

“Aside from you not calling me Tink, I’d like you to start
her up while I play with the mixture.”

He does as asked and watches me fiddle with the fuel-to-air
ratio until like what I hear.

“You do that well,” he tells me as I put the tools away.
“Ever think of becoming a mechanic? Pays well.”

“Perry, I can play with engines, but I don’t
like
playing with engines. I
admit to a certain sense of satisfaction at having just replaced that
carburetor almost all by myself, but it doesn’t blow my skirt up.”

He leans on the bike and gives me a disconcertingly direct
look. “What does blow your skirt up?”

“Police work.” I am stunned at how immediately that pops out
of my mouth, and how completely without irony.

He shakes his head. “You and July. You got any idea how
weird that is, Tink? Two beautiful women who want to bust guys’ asses for a
living.”

Wow—a compliment. “I didn’t say anything about busting
asses. My Dad was a cop, and my uncle is a cop, and my two best friends are
cops. I’m surrounded by cops. Makes me feel . . . coppish.”

He gives me a long, wry look. “Ever consider therapy?”

“Hah.”

“So why aren’t you a cop?”

“A sad twist of fate and genes. I’m vertically challenged
and I can’t follow orders. This did not escape the notice of my instructors at
the Law Enforcement Academy. I washed out.”

“Ouch,” says Perry.

That about sums it up. I change the subject. “So what do you
think of the recent nighttime ruckus? Bob’s coons or pranksters or whatever.
Got any theories?”

Perry shakes his head and pulls a face. “Coons. That’s a
good one.” His eyes flick up to meet mine, laughter in them. “The Coon’s coons?”

“What?” I say, deadpan.

“You know—coons. It’s another word for—”

“I know what it’s another word for.”

Perry reads my face, then pulls his eyes away, straightens,
and says: “Look, Gina, I think he’s
imagining things. I don’t
think we’ve got coons
or
pranksters.”

“The dogs think you’ve got something.”

He doesn’t
reply and I roll the bike outside where Bob is huddled with a customer over the
engine of 1938 Buick Special. Bob is clearly smitten, so I just wave goodbye
and head up the hill, trying not to dwell on my disturbing conversation with
Perry.

The lights go on in the junkyard again that evening. We
watch from the Petersen’s front deck as dogs fly in every direction and Bob
emerges with a flashlight and trots off into the lot to be lost behind the tall
screen of photinia. I recount my earlier conversation with him.

“So now you’ve got him all hot to do some sleuthing, huh,
Nancy Drew?” says July.

“I think he’d gotten up a pretty good head of steam on his
own. He wants to know who’s playing with his cars.”

“Perry?” Lee suggests.

“Why Perry?” I ask, too sharply.

Lee blinks. “Well, like you said: it’s probably someone who
knows Bob well enough to know what’ll get his goat.”

I shrug. “Yeah, and there’s also every chance Perry moved the
car accidentally.”

Right. And maybe there really are coons in the junkyard
making the dogs all hinky, and maybe one thing doesn’t have diddly to do with
the other.

I drop by the yard again the next morning to ask Bob if he
found anything. He isn’t there, but Perry is, dismantling a Honda Accord.

“I guess Bob’s still sleeping off last night’s activities,
huh?” I say.

Perry frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Something set the dogs off again around midnight. Had Bob
out stalking the lot.”

Perry shoots me a glance, then looks back to his work.
“Guess I won’t worry that he hasn’t shown up for work yet, then. Bob’s never
this late.”