Free Widdershins by Charles de de Lint Page B

find whatever traffic congestion a place this size got.
    “Probably still sleeping,” Siobhan said. “Were you here when that Liam fellow pulled out a tin whistle, or had you already gone?”
    “No, I was here. He was good.”
    “And he must know a thousand tunes. The three of them were still going at it when I went to bed.”
    “Did Con hit on you?”
    Siobhan laughed. “Hardly. He’s only got eyes for cute punky fiddlers who dress all in black.”
    “I’ve got red shoes and socks on,” Lizzie told her.
    “Hence the punky.”
    “I thought that was my hair.”
    Siobhan eyed Lizzie’s mix of bright red and black hair.
    “No, that’s just fun,” she said. She waited a moment, then asked, “So you don’t fancy him even a little?”
    “I’d fancy him a lot if we weren’t in the same band. But that’s a rule I won’t break again. It’s just gets too damn messy.”
    “And I agree with you. Though, if it was true love, I’d throw the rule book away.”
    Lizzie laughed. “I think it’s more hormonal love.”
    “Nothing wrong with that.”
    “Nothing at all,” Lizzie agreed. “Unless you’re in the same band.”
    They reached the garage then, and both stopped to take it in. Lizzie’s heart sank. It looked much worse in the daylight than it had last night. All the metal signage was fighting off an intrusion of rust, the windows were almost impenetrable from their thick coating of dust, and the building was in desperate need of a paint job. There were stacks of old tires to one side of the garage bay door and machine parts heaped in unruly piles wherever you turned. The field beyond the tires was littered with junked cars. Old gas pumps, rusting and disused, stood amidst clusters of dead weeds that had pushed up through the concrete all last summer before they’d died in the fall.
    “You left your car here?” Siobhan asked.
    “Not another word,” Lizzie told her.
    There was no one in the office, and considering the state of the room, Lizzie didn’t blame anybody for staying out of it. There was dust everywhere and the counter was covered with tools and old engine parts. On the wall behind the counter, a bikini-clad Miss March regarded them coyly from a wrench company’s calendar. But they could hear a radio playing country music in the bay and when they went inside, there was a man with his head under the hood of Lizzie’s car. He stepped back and smiled at them, a slightly overweight man in his fifties, wearing grease-stained bib overalls with a T-shirt that had once been white underneath it.
    “How do,” he said. “This your car?”
    Lizzie nodded. “Do you know what’s wrong with it?”
    “Alternator’s shot—just like you said in your note.”
    Lizzie gave her cousin a knowing look.
    “Can you fix it?” she asked.
    “Sure can, missy. I can get a new one in from Tyson for this afternoon. But if you’re not in a hurry, I could get you a used one from the junkyard—cost you maybe half the price of a new one. Trouble is, your car wouldn’t be ready until . . . let’s see. I guess late Monday morning.”
    “That’s okay. We’re playing at the Custom House, and we weren’t planning to leave until then anyway.”
    “You the fiddlers?”
    Lizzie nodded.
    “I heard tell you put on a good show. Maybe I’ll drag Joe out to see you’s tonight.”
    That would make this one Tommy, Lizzie thought, if the sign outside was still up to date.
    “I could put you on the guest list,” she said.
    “That’s right neighbourly of you. My name’s Tommy and my partner’s Joe.”
    “I’m Lizzie and this is my cousin Siobhan.”
    Tommy wiped his hands on his overalls, but after giving them a critical scrutiny, he shook his head.
    “Pardon my rudeness,” he said, “but I got too much grease on my hands to shake.”
    “That’s okay. Thanks, Tommy. I guess we’ll see you tonight.”
    He nodded, then called after them as they were about to step outside.
    “What made you have your car