Free The Midnight Plan of the Repo Man by W. Bruce Cameron Page B

the battery was lifeless. I peered up at the darkening sky. “Tell you what, Kermit, I’d like to get the hell out of here. Instead of jumping it, why don’t you just push me down the road. Once we get going I’ll pop the clutch and we’ll start it that way.”
    Kermit shrugged. “Whatever.”
    â€œThe road’s pretty slippery, so I imagine you’ll need to get me moving about ten, fifteen miles an hour or so for the tires to get enough bite to start it. Okay?”
    He sullenly shrugged again, apparently hurt that I didn’t trust him with the car. I slid in behind the wheel, put in the clutch, and moved the shifter into first gear.
    The car rocked. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Kermit hunched over the trunk, gritting his teeth. “What an idiot,” Alan muttered.
    â€œKermit.” I stood up out of the car. “I meant push it with the truck. The truck, Kermit.”
    â€œOh.” He stood up, scratching his head.
    â€œDid you really think you’d get going fifteen miles an hour pushing it yourself?”
    He shrugged.
    â€œOkay, try the truck. And Kermit, no faster than fifteen miles an hour, all right?” I slid behind the wheel again. “Guy would probably try to hit eighty if I didn’t say anything,” I remarked.
    â€œSo how did a Heisman Trophy finalist wind up a repo man in northern Michigan?” Alan wanted to know. “What was she talking about back at the bank?”
    â€œLater, Alan,” I responded, knowing I would never tell him. It wasn’t something I talked about. I frowned as I watched Kermit in the cab of the truck. He had turned it around so that the big rubber front bumper was facing the rear of the Mustang I was sitting in, but now, for some reason, he was backing up. Where did he think he was going?
    Kermit turned on the headlights. He was a good fifty feet away. Suddenly the truck lurched forward.
    â€œWhat is he doing?” I sputtered, watching the tow truck bear down on me.
    â€œI imagine he is approaching the rear of this vehicle at a speed of exactly fifteen miles an hour,” Alan observed calmly.
    There wasn’t time to say anything else before the crash.

 
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    6
    The Slander Clause
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    It was dark and starting to snow with real hostility when I hit the door of the Black Bear, pushing it open like I was hoping it would smack into someone on the other side. I pulled a beer off of the tap and stood behind the bar and drank it while the regulars sat in their chairs and gaped at me with expressions verging on fear.
    â€œBad day?” Becky asked innocently, moving close to wipe down the keg machine with a rag.
    â€œDon’t ask. I’ve got your thousand dollars, though.”
    Her eyes flared with life briefly, then went dark again. “Okay.”
    â€œI’ve got seven-fifty now, and I’ll give the rest of it to you tomorrow, after Milt pays me for today’s repo.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œCome on, Becky! Isn’t that what you wanted?” I bit off the impulse to shout at her.
    â€œSure.” She passed a hand over her brow, leaving a smudge on her glasses. “Sorry. Thanks, Ruddy.”
    She tried out a pursed smile, but it was so rickety and weak I had to look away. When I turned back, she’d given up on it. “Listen, a couple more months and the summer crowds will be here. Things always go better in the summer. We just have to hang on,” I encouraged.
    â€œI’m not sure we can make it until summer, Ruddy,” she said in a voice so quiet I wasn’t sure I heard correctly.
    Janelle Lewis sat down at the bar, and I turned to serve her, glad for an interruption. “Hey, Janelle.”
    â€œHello, Ruddy.” She was, as always, carefully made up, though the flip in her professionally dyed blond hair looked like it had spent a little too long out in the wet weather.
    Janelle’s husband divorced her hard when