Installment #5
Chapters 7 & 8
7
“Vern, you got a side mirror for a Ford?” George said. “Driver’s side. Not a chrome one neither, but silver.”
He and Lyle standing in the front office of Mason’s Salvage Yard, having driven over from the feedlot in Lyle’s truck because George didn’t want to risk an accident in his. He was certain the young man, rude as he was, would be back to trade his truck for George’s. George figured he’d better get the truck looking tip-top.
“Don’t have silver,” George went on, “I guess I could take what you got and paint it, you know, prime it and paint it. Need to sand it first. Hell, by the time I do all that, it’ll be cheaper to just get two of the chrome mirrors and replace both of them, the good and the bad. So, I guess I need a side mirror, silver, driver’s side, or two chrome ones. I got me a fish on the line for that Ford. Need to touch it up here and there. Vern, why’re you all wet?”
Vern Mason stood off to the side of his desk, dripping wet, afraid that if he sat down in the oak office chair he might ruin it. A large green garbage bag lay at his feet, partially hidden by the desk. Vern’s hair, thin when it was gelled and styled, looked evening stringier now that it was wet. Repeatedly, Vern flattened it backward over his head, wringing cold water down his neck.
“Aisle 17-B, northwest, that’s where the Ford trucks are,” Vern said, blotting his high forehead with a coarse brown paper towel. “Starts with black and runs through dark red. You’ll find silver about an eighth of the way down.”
“What about the year? That make a difference?” George said.
“Don’t make no difference because you ain’t selling that truck,” Lyle said.
“Why not?”
“Cause that boy ain’t buying.”
“The hell he ain’t,” George said. “Don’t listen to him, Vern.”
“I don’t, don’t worry,” Vern said. “The year of the truck don’t matter. They’re mixed throughout. Color’s what matters.”
“How you know where silver will be?” Lyle said. “I mean, what’s your rhyme or reason?”
“Color spectrum,” Vern said.
“What’s that?”
Vern rolled his eyes.
“Look it, the color spectrum is the order colors appear in different, whatcha call it? Wavelengths. Waves in a ray of light. You know, like from the sun. It occurs naturally, in nature. I figure that’s as good a way as any to layout inventory, you know? Good enough for nature, good enough for me. You old men probably didn’t get too far into all that back in your little one-room schoolhouse on the prairie. Silver is basically a pale shade of black so you shouldn’t have too far to go down the aisle. Now is there anything else?”
“Yeah, why are you all wet?” George said.
“Got caught in the damn sprinkler. Was out looking over inventory and it came on. I thought I over-rode the program but I must have entered the code wrong. I can’t seem to get the hang of the thing.”
“Ought to spend less time looking into the sun and more time reading the manual,” Lyle said. “Learn something useful for a change. How do George and I know it’s not going to kick on while we’re out hunting up a side mirror?”
“It won’t if you two quit jawing and get at it. Hurry it up now. I need to water soon before the sun gets too high. Otherwise, the water on the grass magnifies the heat. Grass will just burn up. Sort of runs counter to the purpose of watering, don’t you think? Now get your mirror so you can finally sell that truck. Must have found some kind of sucker.”
“I tell you what, he don’t strike me as a sucker,” Lyle said. “But I’m saying right now, I’ll take that back if he offers to buy that piece of shit truck, which he won’t.”
“There’s nothing really wrong with that truck,” George said. “Runs all right. Good enough for around here. Hey Vern, that reminds me: This kid who’s got his eye on my truck was asking about your friend.”
“Who?”
“The kid who’s looking at my truck.”
“No, what friend?”
“You know, the woman,” George said. “That crazy gal who crashed up her car and died and all.”
“Joni?” Vern said. “A friend of hers, he said?”
“Didn’t say.”
“Ask for her by name?”
“Not that I recall,” George said, then pointing to the garbage bag near Vern’s desk, asking, “What you got in the bag there?”
“It’s a garbage bag,” Vern said, not looking at the bag. “Ever seen one?”
“I know what it is. I asked you what you got in it?”
“Garbage,” Vern said. “Hey, this guy asking after Joni, he say what he wanted?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t say nothing, just asked about her?”
“Yep.”
“And what did he ask?”
“Was she in Eden.”
“Did you tell him? About everything?”
“Didn’t get too far down that road. Son of a bitch was rude.”
Vern sucked his teeth and stared at the floor. He considered asking when the guy was coming back to look at George’s truck. But he knew better than to believe George. Look sideways at George as he drove past you and he would swear you were interested in horse-trading for his vehicle.
“You better get out there, find your mirror,” Vern said. “When you find it, just take it. You can pay me later. I’ve got to get that grass watered soon.”
“Wouldn’t want the junkyard looking like…a junkyard, George said. “I never understood why you’re so fussy about a junkyard.”
“You getting that mirror or not?”
“We’re going. Sheesh. Touchy,” George said as he and Lyle made for the door.
8
After the two old men were out of his office and heading down the aisle, Vern kicked the garbage bag all the way under his desk. He ran his hand over his damp hair, trying to think of a place to hide the bag.
From the office he could see the wrecked cab of a diesel tractor-trailer. The sprinklers had gone off, drenching him, just as he was about to stash the bag behind the seat where he could keep an eye on it while he worked. Looking at the cab now, it struck him as too close for a hiding spot.
If anyone found the bag, things would get ugly quick. Proximity would make it easier for someone to tie the bag to him, Vern thought. That ruled out the office too.
He wicked the water from the shoulders of his denim shirt. Trying to think of some place close but not too close. Preferably a place he could get at quickly. Definitely a place only he knew about.
But still, some place he could plausibly deny.
He decided it had to be near the back of the salvage yard. Could always say someone climbed the fence, hid the bag there. Near the back, that would work, worst case. Still, it would be better if nobody found it.
He knew just the spot. A great place to hide a garbage bag full of money.
But first Vern wanted to straighten himself up. He went into the bathroom, applying more paper towels to his head before shaking water from his hair. He squeezed a dollop of gel into his fingers and worked it into his hair. With a comb, he created a part in the fine locks, combing a patch of it over his scalp.
Pausing, he admired himself in the mirror. His shirt and jeans were still wet but they would dry quickly once he went outside.
He heard two car doors slam followed by the sound of Lyle’s truck starting. The engine soon grew fainter as it drove out of the yard and onto the road back to town.
Vern snatched up the garbage bag and stepped out into his salvage yard. The sun felt good as it warmed his soggy clothes, and he wondered if it was already too late in the morning to water the grass.
He made his way down the main road of the salvage yard, a winding gravel artery that touched every larger aisle that fed into every smaller aisle. The entire salvage yard was a series of connecting aisles, row upon row of neatly stacked junk enclosed in a nine-foot chain-link fence with barbed wire running along the top. Vern headed toward the back of the salvage yard. As he walked, he became lost in thought.
Who was this guy asking questions about Joni?
Vern had an idea who the young man was. And Vern had an idea how to deal with him.
Question was, should he tell Joni? He decided to hold off on telling her for a while.
At the end of an aisle, Vern turned the corner into a round open space that held several junked cars, all with some sort of fire damage. He headed directly for a charred white Thunderbird that had been rolled three times before catching fire. The driver, Drunky Anne everyone called her, had walked away without a scratch and thirsty, as she liked to tell it.
Vern climbed into the rear seat of the Thunderbird and yanked on the back of the cushion until it came free from the trunk. He tossed the bag in the trunk and replaced the cushion. He reminded himself to search the key drawer in his desk to see if he still had the match for the trunk’s lock.
Strolling back up the network of aisles to the office, Vern tried to ignore the dread in his stomach. He was supposed to see Joni tonight. If not for the supplies he was bringing, food and magazines and ice and such, he would have skipped it. Because once she discovered he had moved the money, she would not be much fun to be around.
It was in everybody’s best interest that he move the money from the farmhouse. Certainly his own interest, anyway. He chuckled, feeling better about himself and his situation.
Then his smile faded. He heard the low hiss of the sprinklers kicking on again. Vern took off running for his office, cussing the entire way through the spray.