Modern German was a good sign.
The Buick was in the first bay.
I couldn't see Zee, but from the direction of his voice, he was under the car.
Gabriel was standing on the far side of the vehicle; he looked up when he heard me come in, and relief flashed across his face.
He knows Zee is .
.
.
well, not harmless, but that Zee won't hurt him.
But Gabriel is too polite--and as a result he has to put up with a lot more of Grumpy Zee than I do.
"Hey, Zee," I said.
"I take it that you can fix it, but it'll be miserable, and you'd rather haul it to the dump and start from scratch." "Piece of junk," groused Zee.
"What's not rusted to pieces is bent.
If you took all the good parts and put them in a pile, you could carry them out in your pocket." There was a little pause.
"Even if you only had a small pocket." I patted the car.
"Don't you listen to him," I whispered to it.
"You'll be out of here and back on the road in no time." Zee propelled himself all the way under the car so his head stuck out by my feet.
"Don't you promise something you can't deliver," he snarled.
I raised my eyebrows, and said in dulcet tones, "Are you telling me you can't fix it? I'm sorry.
I distinctly remember you saying that there is nothing you can't fix.
I must have been mistaken, and it was someone else wearing your mouth." He gave a growl that would have done Sam credit, and pushed himself back under again, muttering, "Deine Mutter war ein Cola-Automat!" "Her mama might have been a pop machine," I said, responding to one of the remarks I understood even at full Zee-speed.
"Your mama .
.
." sounds the same in a number of languages.
"But she was a beauty in her day." I grinned at Gabriel.
"We women have to stick together." "Why is it that all cars are women?" he asked.
"Because they're fussy and demanding," answered Zee.
"Because if they were men, they'd sit around and complain instead of getting the job done," I told him.
It was a relief to do something normal.
In my garage, I was in control .
.