Free Unpaid Dues by Barbara Seranella

twenty-something office
worker who had inherited the car, and she really couldn't afford the
maintenance. Stephano had no heart where money was concerned and had
already racked up a bill of four hundred dollars. He claimed to have
done a "major" time-up and had a long line of patter for
the customer about synchronizing her carburetors and calibrating her
dwell.
    As far as Munch could tell, all he'd really done was
change the spark plugs and perform a basic transmission service,
which really only amounted to changing the fluid and filter. It was
needed maintenance, but it wasn't solving the problems that the car
came in for. If Stephano put half the energy he used coming up with
excuses into trying to fix the car, they'd all be better off.
    The Jag's undercarriage was a mess. Everything
leaked, the transmission, the power steering, the crankcase, the
radiator. Someone needed to put the car out of its misery before
Stephano drove its owner into bankruptcy
    "Did you check the modulator?" she asked.
    "I don't know if these have one," he
answered. She wanted to say You're supposed to be the expert, but she
knew he'd just get all huffy and treat her to a string of technical
terms that meant nothing. All the talk in the world wasn't going to
convince an engine to run better.
    " What's this?" she asked, pointing to what
might be a vacuum pod sticking out of the transmission. Stephano
looked, but said nothing.
    " Put it down, and start it up," she said.
"I want to check something"
    Stephano did as she asked, not letting his male
chauvinism stand in the way of free help. She put the car back up in
the air with the engine running. The idle was rough, and slightly
higher than it should be. The part she suspected of being the
transmission's vacuum modulator valve had a small pipe nipple. The
tubing was slightly cleaner than the other metal around it,
suggesting that at one time it had been covered. Munch grabbed a drop
light and searched until she found a dangling, sixteenth-inch,
neoprene hose. Heat and age had hardened the rubber, causing it to
split. She put her finger to the end of it and felt vacuum. She
snipped it down to where the rubber was still soft enough to be
pliable, pulled it gently to create enough slack so that it would
reach the nipple on the valve, and then stuck it back on the exposed
tip. The engine idle immediately slowed down and smoothed out.
    " Try it now," she said, "and let me
know. You've got a water pump on an Alpha Romeo coming in."
    " Thanks," he said, puffing his chest into
her face. "Anything I can do for you, just ask."
    " I'll keep that in mind."
    A guy Munch didn't recognize pulled up in a BMW 320
and got out.
    "Can I help you?" she asked.
    " I spoke to Carlos," he said.
    She gave him a quick appraisal. Up-and-coming
white-collar professional, thirtyish. Probably rented a condo on
Montana, leased the Beamer, and drank wine spritzers with his pasta.
Total Yup. Big show, but tight with the dough.
    She left him and moved on to the next customer,
smiling when she saw it was Mrs. Obie. Everybody loved Mrs. Obie. She
was a widowed, retired schoolteacher, had an older house up in the
hills, and was the original owner of an absolutely cherry metallic
green 1966 Pontiac Bonneville. If anything ever went wrong, she got
it fixed, no questions asked, paid any price requested, and did all
the recommended maintenance. Even Stephano went easy on her.
    "Hi, Mrs. Obie," Munch said. "What can
we do for you today?"
    " Brakes. You said I'd be due in five thousand
miles. It's only been three, but I need an oil change, so we might as
well take care of both now."
    " Do you need a ride home?"
    " Yes, dear, if it's not too much trouble."
    "Not at all," she said, looking around for
Pancho, the shop's gofer. She noticed that the guy with the Beamer
was still standing by his car and looking impatient. Carlos was under
the hood of a Honda that was parked in front of the office. "Pancho,"
she said, peeling two sheets of carpet