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I don’t ask for permission to pull it into the bay; I just drive the car into an empty stall. Then I get out and pop the hood.
Camille peeks in, curious despite herself.
“Have you been using original parts?” she asks me. “You can get almost anything for the ‘65-‘68 models, but once you move into the ‘71-’73 . . .”
“This one’s 1970,” I tell her.
“Still—”
“It’s all original!” I snap.
“No performance brake kit?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
She makes an irritating little “Hmph!” sound, like she proved her point.
I’m starting to remember why nobody liked Camille at school. ‘Cause she’s a stubborn little know-it-all.
“Did you add a turbo?” she says. “How much horsepower is it at now?”
She’s really pissing me off. She’s acting like I’m some rich kid down at Wacker Drive, not knowing the first fucking thing about my own car.
“It’s not unbalanced!” I snap.
“Then why is it overheating?”
“You tell me, mechanical genius!”
She straightens up, glaring at me. “I don’t have to tell you anything. I don’t work for you.”
“Where’s your dad?” I say. “He knows what he’s doing.”
I knew that would piss her off, but I underestimated how much. She snatches up the closest wrench and brandishes it like she’s going to hit me upside the head with it.
“He’s sleeping!” she yells. “And even if he weren’t, he’d tell you the exact same thing I’m telling you. Which is to FUCK OFF!”
She turns around and storms out of the auto bay, heading up the stairs to who knows where. Probably her apartment. I’m pretty sure her whole family lives above the shop. “Whole family” meaning her dad and that little brother who’s been selling Molly for Levi. I wonder if she knows about that. I don’t think Camille even drank in high school—she’s always been the responsible type.
Well, that’s her problem, not mine.
My problem right now is getting my car running smooth again. And if Camille’s going to stomp off, then I’m still gonna use her tools. No point letting a perfectly good garage go to waste.
Most of her equipment is older than Moses, but it’s well-maintained, organized, and clean. I set the radio to a better station, so I don’t have to listen to Shakira or whatever the fuck that was. Soon I’m elbow-deep in the engine, sorting out the Mustang.
After about an hour, I’ve concluded that there might have been a teeny sliver of truth to what Camille said. With some of the mods I’ve put on the engine, it’s running at double the horsepower it was originally intended to withstand. I may need to rethink some of the additions.
But that’s a job for my own garage. For now, I just need to top up the coolant. I sort that out, then I toss a couple hundred bucks on the workbench in return for the tools and materials.
I may be a criminal, but I’m not cheap.
5
CAMILLE
I’m so mad I could scream!
Who the fuck does Nero think he is, coming into my shop and acting like I just sweep floors around here?
