Page 1 of Diesel

Chapter One

Ollie

Pulling up in front of Irene’s house was like arriving at a postcard someone had left out in the sun too long. Pale yellow siding, which might’ve been cheerful thirty years ago, now faded to the color of old teeth. Flower boxes under the windows overflowed with petunias in shades of purple that clashed violently with the trim. A ceramic gnome guarded the front steps, chipped and leering like he knew something I didn’t want to find out.

I honked twice. Company policy, though Irene claimed she could hear the shuttle’s engine from inside her living room and the honking was “unnecessary theatrics.” Her words, not mine.

The front door swung open, and Irene emerged in a velour tracksuit the color of radioactive lime. She was seventy-six, barely five feet tall, and had the kind of hairdo that required industrial-strength aerosol and possibly a permit from the fire marshal. Today it was teased into a silver helmet that added three inches to her height.

“Morning, Oliver,” she called, navigating the steps with her cane. Rhinestones sparkled on the handle. Everything Irene owned sparkled. Including, I suspected, her denture adhesive.

“It’s Ollie, Miss Irene.” I climbed out to help her with the door. “And good morning to you too.”

“Oliver is a proper name. Ollie sounds like something you’d name a terrier.” She settled into the front passenger seat with a grunt, arranging her purse on her lap. The purse was also lime green. Matching sets were apparently very important at seventy-six. “Where are we going today?”

“Budget Foods. Same as every Monday.”

“Wonderful. I need wine.”

“You can’t have wine. Doctor’s orders. Conflicts with your blood pressure medication.”

“My blood pressure would be fine if people stopped telling me what I can’t do.” She clicked her seatbelt into place with the confidence of someone who’d been arguing with authority figures since the Eisenhower administration. “Besides, one little bottle won’t hurt.”

“One little bottle will send your blood pressure into orbit, and then I’ll have to explain to your daughter why you’re in the ER again.”

“Tattletale.”

“Employee of the month.”

She snorted, which I took as acceptance. For now. Irene had a habit of sneaking contraband into her cart when she thought no one was looking. Last week it had been a family-size bag of Doritos. The week before, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. The wine would be today’s battle, and I was already tired.

Walter’s house was next. A ranch-style number with brown siding and a lawn mowed to within an inch of its life. Precision and order, those were Walter’s gods. Too bad his dentures didn’t worship at the same altar.

I honked once. Walter appeared in the doorway almost immediately, arms loaded with plastic bags. So many plastic bags. An avalanche of them, crinkled and stuffed with more plastic bags, because apparently Walter had never met a grocery sack he didn’t want to reuse until it disintegrated.

“Morning, Ollie!” Walter called, shuffling toward the shuttle. He was eighty-two, built like a string bean, and wearing a cardigan despite the fact that it was seventy degrees outside. “Got my bags.”

“I can see that, Walter. Planning to bag groceries for the whole store?”

“Reusable bags are five cents now. Highway robbery.” He climbed aboard, depositing his mountain of plastic onto the seat behind Irene. “Five cents! In my day, bags were free.”

“In your day, bread cost a nickel.”

“Damn right it did. And it tasted better too.” Settling into his seat, Walter immediately started working his jaw in that distinctive way that meant his dentures were bothering him. “These things are pinching again. I swear they shrink overnight.”

“Dentures don’t shrink, Walter.”

“Then my gums are growing. Either way, it’s a conspiracy.” He worked his jaw again, making a clicking sound that echoed through the shuttle. “Dentist says they fit fine. What does he know? He’s got all his real teeth.”

“Tragic,” I said, pulling away from the curb.

Greta’s place was four blocks over. A brick bungalow with concrete steps and a mailbox shaped like a rooster. Because, why not? Greta answered the door before I could honk, waving from the porch with enough enthusiasm to dislocate a shoulder.

She was seventy-nine, built like a fireplug, and had the kind of personality that came with a warning label. Zero filter. Absolutely none. If Greta thought it, Greta said it, and if you didn’t like it, that was a you problem.

“There’s my favorite driver!” she hollered, making her way down the steps. Today’s outfit involved purple stretch pants, a neon orange sweater, and orthopedic shoes that looked like they could survive a nuclear blast. “Looking handsome as ever, Ollie.”

“Morning, Miss Greta.” I held the door open while she hauled herself inside. “How are you today?”