.
Well, Zee was really in charge when he came in.
Even though I'd bought the shop from him and now paid him to come in, we both knew who was the better mechanic--and he'd been my boss for a long time.
Maybe, I thought, handing him sockets size ten and thirteen, that was the real relief.
Here I had a job I knew how to do and someone I trusted giving me orders, and the result would be a victory for goodness and order.
Fixing cars is orderly--unlike most of my life.
Do the right thing, and it works.
Do the wrong, and it doesn't.
"Verdammte Karre," Zee growled."Gib mir mal--" The last word was garbled as something heavy went thump, thump, bang.
"Give you what?" I asked.
There was a long silence.
"Zee? Are you all right?" The whole car rose about ten inches off the jacks, knocking them over on their sides, and shook like an epileptic.
A wave of magic rose from the Buick, and I backed away, one hand locked in Gabriel's shirt so he came with me as the car returned all the way to the ground with a bang of tires on pavement and the squeak of protesting shocks.
"I feel better now," said Zee in a very nasty tone.
"I would be even happier if I could hang the last mechanic who worked on it." I knew that feeling--ah, the unparalleled frustration of mismatched bolts, miswired sending units, and cross-threaded parts left for me to discover: things that turned what should be a half-hour job into an all-day event.
Gabriel was pulling against my hold as if he wanted to get farther from the car.
His eyes were wide, the whites showing all the way around his irises.
I realized, belatedly, that it might be the first time he'd seen Zee really work.
"It's okay.
He's through now, I think." I let go of Gabriel's shirt and patted his shoulder.
"Zee, I think the last mechanic who worked on it was you.
Remember? You replaced the wiring harness." Zee rolled out headfirst again, and there was a black grease mark running from his forehead to his chin where something had rolled across his face.
A spot of blood lingered on his forehead, and there was a lump on his chin.
"You may shut up anytime you choose, Kindlein ," he advised me sharply.
Then he frowned.
"I smell cookies, and you look tired.
What is wrong?" "I made cookies," I told him.
"I saved a bag in the car for you to take home.
I brought more with me, but the horde is in possession." "Good," he said.
"Now, what is robbing you of sleep?" He used to leave me alone.