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Blade peeked. I could see his Scooby eyes asking, “Is it safe?”
“I’ll protect you, baby. Come on. Let’s get a move on, and remember, don’t poop on the path.” Because I’d be pissed if I stepped in it. Bad enough, I had to clean giant piles of shit, scrubbing it from my boots sucked.
Blade’s bushy tail wagged. He would totally shit somewhere I could admire. I could almost smell it already.
Sigh.
“After you.” I swung open the side door, and Blade took a step outside, stopped, looked around suspiciously, then eyed me with a lolling tongue.
“My big, brave guard dog,” I praised, patting his head as I walked by.
He remained at my side as we took the path to the junkyard. I thought about opening the main gates, but that would require me walking all the way over and then back. My sore body protested that kind of exertion. I should see if I could find myself an ATV or golf cart for scooting around in. Use some tires to pad corners and make the yard into a track for fun.
Totally crazy at my age. Whatever. I still wanted to do it.
Until I had some zippy wheels, though, I would walk my lazy ass over to that gate and open it for potential buyers. Because, hello, I was trying to be a businesswoman, which meant I needed clients. Even if they weren’t as fun as playing with the Plymouth.
Or the mystery bike.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Wondering what it used to look like in its day. How would it purr once I got that motor going? I really wanted to find out.
The new padlock I’d installed came undone easily enough with my key, and the gates creaked as I pulled them open for business. I pasted a sign on my office door—In the garage. Knock first—so I didn’t wiz my pants in fear.
With the note in place, I headed for my real office, proud of myself for being a responsible junkyard owner while doing something I loved. Multi-tasking at its best.
Blade followed me into the garage and went right to the chair I’d dragged into the corner. His chair. It held some of the toys he babied.
Funny how everything scared my dog except for the power tools when I worked. I could do all kinds of hammering, drilling, sawing, you name it, and Blade snored away.
Usually, he did. Today, he watched the bike. I understood the fascination. Ignoring the Plymouth, I couldn’t help but stroke my fingers over the wolf’s nose. The metalwork gave me a thrill, a zing that electrified. For a moment, I could have sworn the headlight holes sparked red.
My dog growled.
I blinked, and the worn bike stared back, the lenses of the lights filthy with grime and probably no longer any good.
A glance at Blade showed him glaring at the motorcycle.
“It’s okay, baby. It might look like a big, mean wolf, but by the time I’m done fixing it, it will be the sleekest of cats.”
The bike shifted away from me, and I reached quickly to steady it.
“Wobbly sucker. Guess I should invest in a proper stand so you don’t land on me when I start working on you.” I could hardly wait. I’d only ever worked on one bike, and that was in my teens. Still, two wheels or four, the concept remained the same.
Given the Plymouth still had a few more days of work before it went to get painted, I grabbed a notepad and a pencil—chewed…by me, I should add—before gnawing on the end. It helped me think. I jotted notes, items I’d need for the rebuild, tools to gather. I had most of them, although I might need to check my Allen key situation. I vaguely recalled bikes using some strange sizes.
Intent on my task, the knocking at the door startled me, and I almost fell off my stool.
My lazy dog kept staring at the bike, not even looking in the direction of the possible intruder.
I tucked the pencil behind my ear as I grumbled, “Maybe I should get a cat.”
The insult didn’t do a thing to motivate my dog.
I made sure to grip a wrench before yelling, “Who is it?”
“Detective Walker.” He stuck his head in and gifted me the Colgate-straight-and-white smile of a man who’d never missed a dental appointment. I shouldn’t talk. I didn’t either. “Is this a bad time?”
Petty me wanted to say it was never a good time to talk to the po-po; however, he had shown up, which I could admit surprised me. I wouldn’t have thought a case of tweakers getting rough merited an actual detective paying me a personal visit.
