Free The Blue Hour by T. Jefferson Parker

way of brushing
them against his back when she did this teammate thing. She ran her fingers
over the duct tape he wore around his body, casually scratching it through his
shirt, like it itched her as much as it itched him.
    Months ago she had gotten
him to admit that he wore the tape to hold down his budding breasts. That he
folded squares of toilet paper to go over his nipples so they wouldn't get
pulled when he removed the tape.
    He had been livid at her
lack of manners and at himself for making such an admission, and at Holtz and
Pratt for their big gossiping mouths, but to his surprise Lydia had never made
reference to the tape or his breasts again. Other than the light fingernail
scratch she offered without comment every time she let her hand rest on his
body.
    "You let me and Pratt
know if we can testify or anything," she said.
    She always called her
husband by his last name instead of his first, which was Marvis. She always
wanted to help. Like a mechanic/ex-car-thief/beer guzzler or his wife were
going to make you look good to the parole board, he thought. She had a thin
dark body and lank dark hair with ears that showed through it and a little nose
that stuck more up than out.
    "Yes."
    "How'd we do today,
Matty?"
    He told her. It surprised him that for such a dusty,
poorly stocked, out-of-the-way place, Pratt Automotive managed to take in close
to two thousand a week. And the heart of the business was the custom work that
Marvis and Garry did in the back. That made some bigger money and he never saw
so much as a dollar of it. It was a cash thing between car lovers and he was
told from the first that there were really two "operations"—the store
and the custom work—and Colesceau was to mind the store. Only. He knew that
Pratt was in cozy with A1 Holtz, which is why he was offered the job here. And
Pratt was also in cozy with a lot of custom car and biker types and Colesceau
wondered if part of Pratt's deal with Holtz was an occasional betrayal.
    "Why don't you go ahead and
split," she said. "I'll take the bag to the bank."
    This was no surprise because Colesceau,
though trusted with the handling of cash and checks during his workday, was
never asked to make the nightly deposit. He assumed this was some furtive
directive passed from his PA to his boss. Colesceau had long since lost his
amusement over how Holtz demanded his trust but wouldn't trust him back.
    He thanked her and went to the back to
say good-bye to his boss. Pratt stood in the high bay behind the office, his
arms crossed, looking down at the brilliant yellow Cobra with the black hood
and the chrome roll bar and headers. It was an $80,000 car, Colesceau had
heard. Four hundred fifty horses, top speed up near 180 mph. You had to
register it in Nevada because it wasn't quite legal in California. Colesceau
had a brief vision of himself at the wheel and his lover beside him, peeling
across the lawless American desert at top speed, outrunning the world. Garry
came from the refrigerator with two more beers. Cchht. Cchht.
    "Next week we'll crack one for
you," said Pratt.
    "I haven't had alcohol in seven
years."
    "All finished up next week, aren't
your' asked Garry, though Colesceau knew he already knew the answer. Garry was
a man who pretended to be stupid. He believed that you would tell him things
because of that. But Colesceau had been around him enough to understand that he
was as quick and self-serving as a dog.
    "Yes, next
week."
    "Here's
to you, my friend."
    Garry tipped his beer
at Colesceau and took a sip.
    "Five hundred and
four dollars today, Mr. Pratt. And the Ford dealership says the EGR module for
the Bronco will be here tomorrow morning."
    "Thanks,
man."
    Back in the store he saw
that Lydia was outside smoking. In spite of the strong smell of machined
metal, motor oil and solvent, Marvis Pratt forbade his wife to smoke inside the
establishment. She'd put a wrought-iron patio table and two chairs out there,
her smoking area. Pratt had donated a