AAA Service

I could discern the start of a class war in his voice, but, again, this was his show now, so I held my tongue.

“Yes. It’s a ’56 T-Bird. I’ve worked on it a lot. but not quite enough, I guess.”

He quickly and efficiently got the T-Bird on the wrecker’s platform and lashed it in place. He moved real well. He wasn’t fat but not what you’d call thin either, and he’d lifted a lot of weight—probably honestly, through his job, rather than at the gym. Probably another class distinction he could needle me about. He’d stripped off his T to do his work and the tattooing extended all over his torso—in black and blue and green and a faded red. Some sort of Oriental design with a fancy water pattern that moved like the ocean as he worked his muscles. Ships dancing on an ocean. It was a design I found mesmerizing, but he probably had no artistic investment in it. It seemed to be much too sophisticated for him.

When the platform had been raised and T-Bird secured, he hit me with the kicker.