Page 25 of Devilish Ink

The conversation inevitably went something like this:

“It was a family farm.”

“References?”

“Family.”

A wry smile here. A yellow-toothed chuckle. “Can’t exactly trust them to be honest, now can I?”

I never told them that they really didn’t have to worry: Alan had not a single kind word for me.

I always promised I did good work. That I knew my way around engines— motorbikes, cars, tractors—even though I’d never had any formal experience in a mechanic shop. I just needed a chance.

The doors slammed pretty fast. In my face. Time and time again.

In front of O’Sullivan’s Garage, the wind rattled the last of my resumes printed on cheap paper from the hostel’s internet café that I held loosely in my hand.

I considered for a moment not even trying. Giving up. Holding out my hands to the city and saying, “Fine, you win.” Crawling back to Alan.

I suppose that was what made me move. One foot in front of the other. Up the driveway.

I couldn’t let Alan be right. All the wrong he’d done… I wouldn’t let Alan be right.

The big bay door of O’Sullivan’s Garage was closed save a couple feet or two.

I leaned down and shouted in. “Hello in there!”

From beneath a beat-up old Bronco, a man rolled out flat on his back. If I hadn’t known this was a mechanic’s shop, I wouldhave guessed he just finished a shift at the old coal mine. Grizzly beard. Weathered skin. Heavy duty gloves. Wary eyes.

“You’re not selling dictionaries, are you?” he asked.

“Do people still sell dictionaries door to door?”

The man assessed me with narrowed eyes. I figured his shop wasn’t exactly known for its warm welcome and friendly service.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You look like the type.”

Did I really stick out as such a country boy in this city? Like some sort of Boy Scout on a field trip?

“I’m looking for a job,” I said, waving the stack of resumes in my hand as evidence.

The man grunted and tugged himself back under the Bronco.”Sorry, don’t need anyone else.”

The sudden rumbling of the garage door startled me. I turned to see a woman pulling into the drive.

A redhead with a baby face and a big smile hopped out of a beautifully restored baby blue Cadillac, jangling a large set of keys.

“We’re open, don’t you worry,” she said to me with a melodic Cork accent so much like home I felt a punch in my stomach. “The door’s not supposed to be down. My husband should be around here some—”

“He’s selling something,” the man beneath the Bronco grumbled.

I held up my resumes. “I’m looking for work.”

The woman frowned at whoever was hidden beneath the vehicle. “He’s looking for work, Darren.”

“He’s selling himself.”

The woman rolled her eyes and introduced herself as Kayleigh. She invited me into the back office, giving Darren’s ankle a playful kick and a “stop being a grump.”

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