Free Whittaker 01 The Enemy We Know by Donna White Glaser Page B

Wayne was a problem. Enough already.
    Al from the garage wasn’t very encouraging about the situation, either. When I pulled into the station early Saturday morning with the second flat tire in as many days, he came out of the bay wiping his hands on a greasy rag. My dad’s best friend, Al had always been good about taking care of me. Better than my dad, actually.
    “ Looks like you got another flat.”
    “ Yep.”
    “ Gonna make a habit of this?”
    “ I hope not. But … maybe.”
    A man of few words, he nodded, letting his eyes ask the questions.
    “ Some jerk is harassing me. I’m going to the cops on Monday.”
    Over his shoulder, he called to one of his workers. “Rick! Come take care of my girl here.” Crooking a finger, he motioned me to follow him into his office.
    As we passed through the five-by-seven foot “lobby” lined with metal chairs, he pulled a key out of his pocket, opened the pop machine and grabbed two cans of generic cola before continuing on to the small office behind.
    Like Al, the office was geared for hard work and efficiency and smelled like grease. The only bright spot came from a calendar featuring a red Corvette and a buxom blonde, both high maintenance and artificially engineered. Seeing me glance at the babe made Al clear his throat uncomfortably, casting his eyes in the opposite direction. Al didn’t like to think about boobs with his best friend’s baby girl in the same room.
    He handed me one of the pops, taking a long slug of his own. I took a sip and waited. For as long as I’d known Al, I couldn’t remember a single time where we’d had a conversation that involved anything more personal than the weather, but I could tell he was gearing up for something big.
    “ You know who this guy is?” he asked.
    “ Yeah, but I can’t prove it. Not yet, anyway. He’s making it pretty obvious, though.”
    “ You scared?”
    I almost couldn’t answer. My throat closed up, and I was afraid the sip of pop I’d just taken wouldn’t go down. A memory from when I was twelve flashed into my mind.
    Al brings Dad home after the VFW picnic, hauling him up the back steps into the kitchen. Mom takes over, guiding Dad into the bathroom and dumping him on the floor. Dad misses the toilet, of course, puke splattering noisily on our tile floor. I hate him then, knowing I’d have to clean up the mess, scrubbing the vomit from the grout lines with an old toothbrush. We stand there—my brother, sister, and I—in the kitchen with my father’s silent, steady friend, listening to the retching. I wish Al was my father.
    Sitting in his office nearly twenty years later, once again wrestling with the shame of alcohol-flavored secrets, I found myself wishing the same thing.
    “ Yeah,” I finally answered. “A little scared.”
    He nodded, looking away again. “Smart girl. If the worst thing he does is go after your tires, that’s a good thing. Not for the tires, o’ course. Still, you could run through a lot of money even if that’s all he does. Especially if he gets tired of sticking nails in and starts slashing the side walls.
    “ I had a guy in here a couple years ago. His daughter’s boyfriend started up the same kind of trouble. Went on almost a year. I finally put him on a budget plan. He’s still paying us off, although the boyfriend eventually moved on.”
    “ I hope it doesn’t come to that,” I said. “I’m going to the cops, tomorrow and I’m going to talk to my boss too. I’m not sure there’s anything they can do, but—”
    “ There’s cameras, nowadays. Those hunting ones, you can pick one up, but they ain’t cheap. Don’t wait for your boss or the cops to start taking care of you. And here.” He yanked on the top drawer of his metal desk and pulled out a gun.
    “ Oh shit, Al!” I jumped in my seat.
    “ Don’t be a sissy,” he chuckled. “It’s not like you ain’t seen a gun before.” His chair squeaked as he leaned back, hands folded across his belly.