Free Against the Wall by Jill Sorenson Page A

caring person. He gives as generously as he takes.
    Soon we’re headed south toward Border Field. He makes a right turn and we end up on a dusty road near the border. After a couple of blocks he pulls into a place called Scrappy’s. There are piles of junk and wrecked cars everywhere. It’s deserted. I shift in my seat, thinking this would be an excellent place for an execution.
    The last time I went for a ride with Junior, he put a gun to my head.
    That was the same day he shot up Oscar’s house, led a police chase, and crashed his car into a ravine. He was drunk at the time, and mourning his sister’s death, so I forgave him. He was out of his mind with grief.
    Right now he’s in good spirits, and probably high on meth. I’m pretty sure I can trust him not to kill me, but I also know what he’s capable of—and who he answers to. It’s possible that La Eme gave him the order. They might want to test his loyalty. By trying to go straight, I’ve turned my back on the prison gang and made some dangerous enemies.
    Blood in, blood out. That’s the rule. You can’t just walk away.
    Junior parks among the rubble and cuts the engine. He smiles a little, as if he knows what I’m thinking. He likes scaring people, even me. “Look around.”
    I study our surroundings and one of the cars catches my eye. It’s a ’72 Chevelle. It’s
my
’72 Chevelle. I jump out and run toward it, examining the damage. The front end is smashed. It needs a new bumper and a new hood. Some of the windows are broken. I drop to my stomach on the grass and check the undercarriage.
    Fuck. The chassis is busted.
    I scramble to my feet, excited nonetheless. “How’d you find it?”
    “I was in the neighborhood,” he says. Maybe he does deals here.
    “Can I buy it?”
    “You want to?”
    “Of course,” I say, lifting the broken hood. The engine block is still there. If I can find another chassis with the same specs, I can take apart the whole car and rebuild it. Replacing the hood and windows won’t be a problem.
    It would be easier to buy a car that doesn’t need so much work, but I can probably get a good deal on this one, and besides, she’s my baby. I walk in circles around the wreckage, inspecting the damaged interior and patting the driver’s side lovingly. I can’t wait to bring her back from the dead.
    “Thanks, man,” I say, getting in Junior’s car and doing our CVL handshake. “This is awesome.”
    Junior drives to a rusted trailer near the front entrance, where we get out and meet Scrappy, aka Steve Scranton. He’s old as the hills and smells like BO. He sells parts, not cars, so he won’t even let me make an offer. Junior, who’s standing behind Scrappy, forms a phantom bat with his hands. He’ll get me the car through brute force.
    “Do you need any help?” I ask the old man, trying a different tack.
    “Doing what?”
    “Errands, heavy lifting, removing parts. Whatever.”
    “You an auto mechanic?”
    “No, but I took auto in high school.” I actually passed that class, too. “I’m a hard worker, and I’m cheap.”
    “How cheap?”
    “I’ll trade services for the car and spare parts.”
    “You’re a fucking idiot,” Junior says to me. “Let’s go.”
    “Come back Sunday,” Scrappy says.
    “You won’t sell it before then?”
    “Boy, I don’t even sell cars.”
    “You won’t gut it?”
    “No. I’ll leave it alone.”
    We shake hands.
    After leaving the junkyard, Junior buys me lunch at a taco shop about a mile away. He doesn’t eat much, which confirms my suspicions that he’s on something. Meth kills the appetite. I’m almost finished with my meal when it occurs to me that the place is familiar.
    “Have we been here before?” I ask, glancing around.
    He wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “You don’t remember?”
    “No.”
    “We ate here after a night in TJ once. You were drunk off your ass.”
    “Is this where I pissed in the trash can?”
    He laughs, nodding. “You pissed