Free Evil Harvest by Anthony Izzo Page A

old pecker ain’t seen a beaver in years.”
    “Keep it in your pants, you old pervert.”
    Jimbo started coughing again and Rafferty hung up.
     
     
    This town sucks , thought Bill Jergens as he sat in the waiting area at Jimbo’s garage. He had come all the way out to this pissant little town to sell a new pager account at Drover Industrial Supply. When he got there, the guy told him that Drover had already gone with Mobile Comm, Bill’s main competitor. And the asshole had told him over the phone that if Bill came out personally, they would sign with Rapid Communications, Bill’s company. He felt like threatening the guy with a lawsuit.
    To top it off, AAA had brought him to this stinking garage because his Lexus had refused to start. Forty thousand dollars for the car and it quit on him.
    He sat in the area of the garage that doubled as an office and waiting room for the customers. There was a scuffed metal desk and an office chair with the stuffing poking out of the seat, three plastic chairs and a magazine rack. The rack held a copy of Life with a picture of Ronald Reagan on the cover. To top it off the place smelled like a cross between gasoline and a sweat sock.
    The sun beat on the back of his neck. The collar of his shirt scratched his neck, and sweat beads formed on his forehead. He wished for a pair of Bermudas and sandals instead of a suit.
    He had sold Chryslers, life insurance and even pawned off thousand-dollar vacuums on gullible housewives. Now it was pagers and cell phones, mostly sold to corporate customers.
    He was pretty damn good at selling—been top salesman three years running—and he had the Lexus to prove it. He liked thinking the other salesmen drooled over it when he pulled in the lot.
    Now, sitting in the garage, he began to get nervous, wondering what these small-town yokels would do to his prized automobile.
    The geezer named Jimbo entered the waiting room. He was George Burns old, with a scraggly white beard and an off-center eyeball. The guy could probably see his left ear with that eye, Bill thought. Jimbo wiped his hands on the front of his coveralls, smearing them with grease. He approached Bill and stopped.
    “That’s a pretty fancy car.”
    Scratchy voice, probably a heavy smoker.
    “What’s the damage?”
    “Fella like you must make a lotta money.”
    “I do all right,” Bill said. “What’s wrong with it?”
    Instead of answering, Jimbo hawked and spat a wad of phlegm on the floor. Bill recoiled in disgust.
    “Well, I believe it’s your alternator.”
    “That car’s only a year old!”
    Jimbo scratched his beard. “Yeah, but it’s a Jap car. Never did trust them to make cars, not after the War, that is.”
    “What exactly is wrong with the alternator?”
    “It’s just shot.”
    “I want to see it.”
    “Sorry, can’t let you in the garage,” he said and shrugged. “Insurance reasons.”
    “If you don’t let me in there, I’ll call the cops.”
    “Be my guest. Call ’em.”
    This guy is a number-one jackass. “All right, suit yourself,”
    Bill took out his cell phone, flipped it open. “I’m calling 911.”
    Jimbo reached out and grabbed Bill’s arm. “Well, maybe I should let you take a look. I’m getting a little crabby in my old age.”
    Bill gave him a speculative look; after a moment, he put the phone back in his pocket.
    “But it’ll cost you. Twenty-dollar consulting fee. That’s on top of parts and labor.”
    “And what’s that going to cost me?”
    “Oh, in the neighborhood of a thousand.”
    “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m paying that much. I’m getting my car out of here if I have to put it in neutral and push it out myself.”
    Bill stood and stomped into the garage.
    A skinny, acne-faced kid with “Carl” sewn on his coveralls looked over at him. There was a Ford up on the lift and Carl was monkeying with the front brakes.
    Bill’s Lexus, black and gleaming, waited in the bay next to the Ford. Jimbo