6. River

RIVER

That evening, I tossed and turned all night, my attempts to sleep made even more challenging by the fact that I was squeezed into the same bed I'd had since I was six years old. Hell, I've had better nights sleeping in tents or going it rough on the ground. It wasn't so much the encounter with Roxanne that made for such a fitful night. It was the troubling question as to why Clarry hadn't turned up to say hi.

I was keen to make some plans with him, instead of just showing up unannounced. Maybe we could go to Flannigan's bar for a drink and shoot the breeze. Or maybe Clarry would fancy a picnic out by the river, somewhere quiet, maybe a nice sunny spot upstream where we wouldn't be interrupted by people like Roxanne. Hell, I'd even go see a movie with him at the old Ritz if that's what he wanted, although I'd heard the place was practically falling apart.

I didn't care. I just wanted to spend some quality time with him.

We had so much catching up to do.

Not that I wanted to tell him about what happened in the desert. I didn't particularly want to tell anyone about that. Not even the counsellors back in the Marine Corps got a word out of me on the topic. Some things were best left in the past.

This was the present, and all I wanted to do was spend it with my best friend.

After falling out of bed with a thud early the next morning—forgetting how little room I had between me and the edge of the mattress in my groggy, weary state—I decided I needed to take matters into my own hands and head back to Clarry's that day.

There could have been a million reasons why he didn't turn up at Mike's the day before, but there wasn't one good reason stopping me from going to see him again.

Except that maybe I was being kinda pushy… or annoying… or seriously needy, turning up on his doorstep two days in a row.

I ate breakfast before my old man even staggered out of his bedroom, wolfing down a bowl of Cheerios that my dad said needed to be eaten first, because out of all the expired cereal boxes he'd pulled off the store's shelves, the Cheerios were about to pass the point of no return. Despite the fact that my father's definition of "point of no return" was most people's idea of "food poisoning," I had built up an iron stomach in the Marines and could pretty much withstand anything. So, I chowed down on the stale cereal and left for Mike's workshop, determined to get there early, put in the work, then take a break at lunchtime to go visit Clarry.

If Clarry wondered what I was doing there, bugging him yet again, I'd tell him I was hungry and hot and needed an ice cream to cool off. I could even prove it to him by unbuttoning my coveralls. It was the height of summer after all, and it's not like Clarry hadn't seen me shirtless before.

Yep, I convinced myself that was a great idea and grinned as I slid open the roller door to Mike's.

When Mike arrived at the workshop he gave me an impressed nod of approval, noticing that I'd already finished checking the fluid levels on Wally Gilmore's old Chrysler, replaced the clutch on Sally Bowman's drycleaning van, and managed to single-handedly get Larry's truck on the lift to inspect the undercarriage.

"Well, whaddaya know," said Mike, setting down his lunch pail with a contented grin. "Finally, I found me someone who knows his way around a mechanic's workshop. You okay to change the oil on Larry's truck and finish the inspection on your own? That'll give me a chance to catch up on some invoicing. After that I'll help you go over Roxanne's Toyota, see if we can't find what's wrong with it… if there's anything wrong with it at all."

"Sure thing, boss."

"Oh, and River, quit calling me boss, would ya? It makes me feel like I'm in the Mafia or something. I'm not Al Capone, you know. I'm just plain old Mike."

I huffed out a laugh. "Sure thing, boss… I mean, Mike."

It was almost noon before Mike emerged from his office, rubbing his bleary eyes. "Jesus, I hate computers. How do people sit and stare at those things all day long? Give me a burnt-out spark plug and a messy toolbox full of wrenches and sockets any day. Now where were we?"

I wiped my grimy hands down the front of my coveralls and nodded around the workshop with my chin. "Larry's truck is all done and down from the lift, Mrs. Webster's car is all good to go and I've even managed to give Dilbert a new bill of health. All that's waiting now is Roxanne's Toyota."

Out in the yard, Mike listened under the hood of the convertible while I sat behind the wheel, the engine idling. "Give it a little gas," Mike called to me. "Try the indicators. Give the wheel a tug to the right. Now left. Turn the air conditioning on. Turn it off again."

Eventually he stood straight, wiped his hands and shut the hood while I cut the engine and stepped out of the car. "I can't hear a damn thing out of place. Sounds like she's in perfect nick to me. "

"You don't think Roxanne would pretend there's something wrong with her car as an excuse to—"

"Come and see you?" Mike finished for me. "Hell yes. You've been gone for eight years, you're fresh meat. Lord knows that woman would climb over her own grandmother for the chance to snaffle herself another future ex-husband."

"Another? She's been married before?"

"Six times."

"Six times! But she's only my age. She's not even thirty yet."

"Ambitious, ain't she. Take heed when I tell you that woman's a collector. A collector of ex-husbands, a collector of big divorce settlements and a collector of big rings with big rocks on them."

"I didn't see any rings at all yesterday."

Mike chuckled. "Which is exactly what she wanted you to see… or not see, as the case may be. She's eyeing you like a teething shark, so you'd better watch out for yourself, ya hear?"

"Thanks. Will do, boss."

"Mike."

"I mean… Mike. Say, do you mind if I take a lunchbreak soon? I kinda wanna take a walk across the bridge and see my pal Clarry."

"Are you kidding? You've done more work in one morning than Bud and Maggie did in a month. Don't get me wrong, I love those kids. They're sweet and funny and lovable… but productive is one thing they're not ." He clapped me on the back. "You take as long as you like. Say hi to Clarry, and have a delicious scoop or two for me. Nobody makes ice cream like Clarry does."

I smiled warmly. Proudly. "No, they don't."