Page 2 of Jack of All Trades

Blinking down on her as her pointy tongue ran over her thin, wrinkled lips, he barked a laugh. “I’m not a shifter.”

She cackled as he wrenched his arm from her and continued up the aisle, hearing her witchy laughter until he got off the bus and the doors closed behind him. As he looked back, she stood, pointing her gnarled finger at him.

“Creepy old witch.”

The cold hit Jack hard, and he pulled his hoodie over his head as he trudged through more salt-melting snow. Hanging a left on Bulworth Street, Jack passed several warehouses before he came to the address he’d been given.

Like any other warehouse, it didn’t stand out amongst the others. Jack could have sworn it was supposed to be where the guy, Maltin Graves, lived.

No big deal, he thought. A business might even pay more. He went up the hill and veered off into the parking lot, seeing only one car parked outside. A big, black SUV. It shined without a speck of dust, no watermarks or mud, unlike all the other cars he’d passed on the way.

There were two huge bay doors, but he went to the small side door labeled Odinsin faded orange stencil letters. That was where he knocked, right on the O in Odins.

The door opened, and he tried to see the man standing back from the doorway, hidden in the wall’s shadow. “Maltin Graves?”

“That’s me,” he said in a low, gravelly voice.

“I’m Jack, from Hand-e-Men.”

“Of course,” he said in that rumbling tone. “Come in, please.”

The brightness of the snow outside made it impossible to see before his eyes adjusted after he stepped into the building. That meant the man and the space were nothing but blackness for the first full minute.

Except for the hole in the roof where the light shone in and water dripped loudly, hitting metal.

“As you can see, the roof took a beating from that horrible blizzard. I was only lucky none of the debris hit any of my cars.”

By then, his eyes adjusted enough to see what Maltin Graves meant. Around the vast space were at least forty, probably more like fifty, cars, all classics, all in mint condition, in every color from sea-foam green to bright, cobalt blue. In awe, he stared until Maltin Graves cleared his throat to regain his attention.

“Sorry. They’re…they’re beautiful. Are they all yours?”

“Yes, they are. They’re not to be touched,” he said in a clipped way that told Jack he’d be fired or possibly killed for even considering it.

Even though he seemed to be a real asshole, Jack got a better look at the guy after his eyes had adjusted. Well, he was pretty. Soft features and dark eyes that almost took on a red glow when he peered up at the hole in the roof.

Soft wisps of dark hair kissed his cheeks almost purposely in the tousled style. It was so dark that its shine was close to blinding Jack all over again.

“Can you fix it?”

Jack came out of his reverie to look the man in the eye again. “I…sure, yeah, I can fix it.”

“Good.”

He walked to the end of the warehouse, where there was a loft upper story that usually housed the offices. Jack was at a loss until Graves called, “Are you coming?”

“Oh, right.”

He jogged to catch up to Graves, but it was hard because his head was on a swivel, trying to take in all the classic cars. There was a cherry red ’57 Chevy Bel Air, a silver ’67 Mustang Shelby GT Fastback, a '63 Austin Healey Sebring MX, and those were just the few he could catch as he caught up to Graves.

It was like he died and went to car collector heaven. “Your cars are amazing.”

“Yes,” he grunted.

As much as the guy was a prick, Jack could forgive him anything if he could just stare at those cars all day. They were a perfect collection, but Graves was fussy about them, casting concerned glances back every couple of steps.

Graves led him up the metal stairs to the loft and through a set of heavy metal doors a few feet from the landing. As he pushed them, Graves again warned, “Please, don’t touch anything.”

Behind his back, Jack made a face, feeling infantile doing it, but he was in a foul mood for such a persnickety client. All he could hope was that the guy didn’t want sex after the roof was built. Money or not, he didn’t want to please him past fixing the roof. And that, he thought, was for the cars. They were too beautiful to be threatened by the roof falling in on them.

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