Collateral Damage
By ChristopherDB Copyright 2022
Interior work on cars and trucks was never my thing. That is unless it's tearing stuff out to get at something with resale value. Like a fuel pump that you can get to from under a back seat, or a computer module hidden behind the glove box. That's why I had saved the interior of my F250 project until last. It was coming together better than expected.
Chewbecca gave a low growl and raised her head slightly, looking out the open garage door into the night. She was an old chow, mastiff, shepherd, wooly mammoth mix. A perfect junkyard dog, back in her prime.
Before long I heard tires crunching on gravel over by the west gate. A key was hidden there that only a few good friends knew about. It was probably Joe, and I smiled, knowing he would bring some cold beers with him.
We had graduated from high school together and he stuck around for a few years, working whatever shit jobs he could find, but then joined the Navy. Any time he was home on leave he would drop by and we'd drink a few beers and have some laughs.
While he had no regrets enlisting in the Navy, he made it no secret that he was envious of my position. I was in line to be the third generation owner of my family's auto salvage yard. A life contract, he called it. Just take over the family business that I already knew, while a guy like him had to figure out how to make it in life.
An old beater with only one headlight on slowly came around the corner of a long stack of cars. I didn't recognize it. Certainly wasn't Joe. He always drove his mom's Impala when he was in town.
The car approached slowly. Almost cautiously. The engine running smoothly, but with a faint squeal of the serpentine belt. Chewbecca painfully got on her feet and gave a single deep bark. I glanced over at the cluttered workbench under the fluorescent glare, noting the location of the pony sledge. Just outside the garage door the driver stopped and shut off the engine.
"Hello, Chewie!" a woman's voice called out. The dog started to wag her bushy tail and walked over to the car with a rare spring in her step. I was surprised that Anna had dropped by, especially this late at night.
She had a black leather motorcycle jacket slung over one shoulder of her low cut Harley tank top, which had narrow straps and seemed to enhance her modest breasts. A wide studded leather belt encircled the waist of her faded jeans that fit nice and tight over her full hips. The jeans were tucked into the tops of some scuffed black leather boots, and their short spiked heels made a wonderful sound on the cracked concrete floor. It had been a while since I'd seen her.
"Looks like you've had a rough night," I said, after we'd exchanged a hug.
Her left cheek was smeared with dried blood, and the eye above was starting to swell. For some reason it disturbed me even more that her hair, which had always been a lush flowing mane of golden blonde, now looked brittle and frayed.
She briefly admired the truck I had been building over the past months. Said it looked pretty, but then set about inspecting her damage in one of the rearview mirrors.
"Let's go to my place so you can get cleaned up," I offered.
One row of cars over from the shop is a little clearing, like a cove. An old Airstream trailer has been parked there forever. I showed her to the bathroom and told her that first aid supplies were in the small medicine cabinet over the toilet. Then I set about getting some ice cubes out of the freezer, wrapped them in a wash cloth, and handed that to her though the open doorway.
Anna was in the bathroom for a long time. When she came out, she stopped by the kitchen sink and looked at the rack of clean dishes on the counter. Then at Chewbecca on the living room floor, comfortably sacked out on an oversized dog bed, food and water bowls close by.
"This used to be like your little clubhouse," she said curiously. "Now it's like, a bachelor pad."
"I haven't been getting along with my dad, so I fixed up the trailer last year. Been living out here since then," I told her. "I won't bore you with the details."
Pulling a bottle of Old Crow from the cabinet under the TV, I offered her a drink, and she accepted. When I had two glasses poured over ice, she had settled herself in on the sofa.
"I haven't seen you up at the Halfway Inn lately," she said, referring to a dumpy little roadside bar a few miles from here.
"Yeah, those bikers you ride with seem to have taken over the place. You remember Mick?" I asked. "People used to bully him all the time when we were in school. I guess he rides with them now. Last time I was up there to see Dave's band, Mick walked up to me. I didn't recognize him at first. He's all tatted up now and bulked out a little. Told me it was a private party. Said I could finish my beer but then it would be best for me to leave. So that's what I did."
"Well, that was the smart thing to do," she said flatly.
It was a few years ago when a small group of bikers moved into the area. Now I've ridden before. I can enjoy a loud motor and partying with friends, but there was more to these guys then that.
They mostly kept to themselves and rumor was they maintained what they called a weigh station, a transfer point for drug trafficking. Then there were more bikers, and an abundance of cheap drugs, both resulting in a lot of collateral damage. How or why Anna had fallen in with them I didn't know and wasn't going to ask.
