Free Southern Cross by Patricia Cornwell Page B

Muskrat walked over to the solvent bin and dipped his hands in the murky fluid.
    “What’cha need?” Muskrat finally said to the kid.
    “My left rear power window won’t work.” The young man was courteous, but his eyes were hard.
    “The motor’s probably gone bad,” volunteered Bubba the ace mechanic. “But you’re gonna have to wait. I was here first.”
    “We got a few minutes,” Muskrat told Bubba. “Let me go on and take care of him.”
    Muskrat dried his hands and walked outside to the Escort. He opened the back door and popped the panel off as the young man scanned his surroundings.
    “Bubba, how ’bout bringing me the wire strippers,” Muskrat said. “You’re lucky,” he told his young customer. “It ain’t the switch or the motor. You got a broke wire between the door and the jamb. All I gotta do is splice it. What’s your name, by the way?”
    “Smoke.”
    “Now that’s a new one,” Muskrat commented.
    “What everybody calls me.” Smoke shrugged. “Hope you get your problem taken care of,” he then said to Bubba. “I’m new around here. People seem really nice.”
    “It’s the South,” Bubba bragged.
    “I guess you’re from here.”
    “Couldn’t be from anyplace else. In fact, I’m even more southern than I used to be.”
    “How so?” Smoke asked with a smile that might have been interpreted as a faint sneer had Bubba paid attention.
    “Born on Northside and moved to Southside.”
    “Oh yeah? Where ’bouts?”
    “Forest Hills. Over on Clarence,” said Bubba, who was flattered by the boy’s interest and his respectful way of addressing him. “Can’t miss my house. The one with the coon dog in the pen. Half Shell. She barks nonstop and wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
    “Not much of a watchdog if she barks all the time,” Smoke said.
    “You got that right.”
    “You hunt with her?”
    “Big into that,” Bubba said.
    “Seems all us southern guys are big on guns.”
    “You bet.”
    Muskrat twisted the wires he’d stripped and was done.
    “When I was your age,” Bubba said to Smoke, “I started fixing things like this myself.”
    “I’m not very mechanically inclined,” Smoke said.
    “You can work on it, son.” Bubba beamed. “Go out and get the proper tools, some books, and it’s trial and error. Same with things around the house. You build your own deck and fix your own roof—hell, just the other day I bought a new garage door at Sears. Installed it myself.”
    “No kidding,” Smoke said. “Remote control and all?”
    “You bet. Gives satisfaction money can’t buy,” Bubba said.
    “You must have quite a shop,” Smoke said.
    “Had to add an addition to the garage. Everything from grove joint pliers to a DeVilbiss air compressor rated at 7.6 CFM at 40 PSI and 5.6 CFM at 90 to diagnostic tools like a Sunpro Sensor Probe so you can test manifold absolute pressure, mass air flow and vane air flow sensors.”
    “Don’t need shit like that, and neither do you, Bubba,” Muskrat let him know. “At least I know how to use what I got.”
    Muskrat replaced the door panel and got up. He climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine and tested the window. It hummed up.
    “Smooth as silk,” he proudly announced, wiping his hands on his pants.
    “Gee, thanks,” Smoke said. “How much do I owe you?”
    “The first time’s on the house,” Muskrat said.
    “Gee. Thanks a lot,” Smoke said.
    “Hey, the Gun and Knife Show’s coming in two weeks,” Bubba suddenly remembered. “Looking for a couple after-market clips, twenty rounds, for my new 92FS M9 Special Edition, finest military handgun in the world. Now that I gotta show you, Muskrat. Comes with pistol belt and holster, magazine pouch. Same thing used in Just Cause, Desert Storm, Desert Shield, Restore Hope, Joint Guard.”
    “Do tell,” said Muskrat.
    “I’m debating if I should’ve got the presentation case. Walnut, etched glass cover. And the walnut grips,” Bubba