“Mr. Packard, Mr. Pasquale,” I said pleasantly. “How goes the truing?” A flicker of surprise touched Jason’s face. Geezers who knew about truing bike wheels? Jeez, what’s the world coming to. Leaning against the workbench was the gold and blue racing bike that Pasquale had been riding earlier, minus the front wheel. “Hit a curb?”
Tom grinned sheepishly. “Yes, sir. That’s exactly what I did.”
“It jumped into your path, did it?”
“I got cut off,” he said. “You know, some lady wasn’t watching and cut me off when she turned right.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He glanced down as he shifted his weight, and I saw a scrape just above his ankle. “I didn’t dump it, but came close.”
“Did she stop?”
“Ah, no, sir.” The kid grinned. “She waved, though.”
“Well then, that makes it all right.” I stepped closer and peered at the wheel. “May I?”
“Sure.”
I nudged the wheel gently and watched the little dial indicator as it flickered only a thou-and-a-half through a full revolution. “Hell of a good job.” Packard didn’t reply, but he looked pleased. “So. Have either of you two seen Mo around lately?”
“No, sir.” Pasquale’s answer was immediate, but I saw a twitch of expression on Jason Packard’s narrow face that told me he’d rather talk about bike wheels.
“Jason?”
“Nope.”
“But he’s been riding with you lately?”
“Well…some, I guess. He can’t keep up, the wuss.”
I laughed. “You set the blistering pace, do you?”
“He don’t have a decent bike,” Jason said. “And he won’t work on getting in shape.”
“But he’d like to?”
Jason frowned, not sure how to answer. He settled for a noncommittal shrug.
For a long moment, I regarded the wheel in the vise as the hub gently drifted on perfect bearings. “So you haven’t seen him around today or yesterday? It’s unusual that the three of you all ditched school today. You were all planning a ride or something?”
“Just got things to do,” Jason said. He glanced at Tom Pasquale, probably wondering what else his cycling friend had told me during our earlier conversation. I couldn’t imagine that Tom hadn’t mentioned his traffic stop out on NM17, or my admonition that stop signs applied to cyclists. I jumped right into the issue at hand, hoping for a little shake-up value.
“What do you think about what happened to Larry Zipoli, Jason?”
It was one of those stupid questions in the same category as those asked of catastrophe survivors by television reporters. Before either young man had the chance to cook up a response, I added, “Did either of you ever hear arguments between Zipoli and anybody else?”
“No, sir,” Tom Pasquale said, and his expression added, “What arguments?”
“Arguments with the neighbors? Fence encroachment, unkempt lawns, the boat leaking oil, kids hanging around at all hours, maybe dealing marijuana…”
Jason Packard’s frown was dark and stormy, and he glared at me incredulously. “Jesus, mister, where’d you dig up all that shit?” Obviously he wasn’t a kid easily intimidated, by stepfathers, school staff, or cops.
“None of it’s true?”
“I don’t know about any of that.”
“You ever have the chance to pass the time of day with Jim Raught next door?”
“No. I seen him once in a while. He keeps to himself.”
“Did you overhear any arguments that Mr. Zip might have had with him?”
“No. That ain’t any of my business what they do.” He touched the wheel so that it coasted another turn.
“You guys shared a beer or two from time to time with Mr. Zipoli?”
“Sure. Why not?” I glanced sideways at Tom Pasquale. He couldn’t suppress the fidgits, and his T-shirt armpits were wet.
“About a hundred reasons.” I picked a tiny piece of something off one of the wheel’s yellow spokes. “So let me ask you both something you do know about.” I regarded Jason thoughtfully. “The other day, the three of you apparently stopped up on the county road to chat with Larry Zipoli-just up past the old drive-in. But one of our witnesses says he saw just the two of you there. Not three.”
“Yeah? So?” Jason’s tone was wary. Tom Pasquale studiously examined the concrete floor, since he knew what he’d already told me.
“Were was Mo? Wasn’t he out riding with you that day?”
“Yeah, he was on that wreck of a bike of his.”
“He lagged behind, or went on ahead while you guys talked with Zipoli? Is that it?”
“He went on ahead a ways. He said he was havin’ trouble with his chain.” Jason shrugged expressively. “What’s to go wrong with that thing? He’s always comin’ up with something like that. Always some lame excuse.”
“A lame excuse for what? For talking with Zipoli? For sharing a brew on a hot day? Does this Mo guy have an issue with Zipoli somehow?”
Jason almost laughed at that. “This Mo guy,” he repeated. “Not no more issues now, I guess.”
“He did have, though?”
“Mr. Z picked on him sometimes,” Tom Pasquale offered.
“Because?”
The boy shrugged. “Just ‘cause. Mo was kinda clumsy. Kinda chubby.”
“And Zipoli wasn’t?”
“I’m just saying.” Tom smiled. “Mo couldn’t ski…I mean he tried, but he couldn’t stay up more’n a hundred yards. He made it up once, and Mr. Z spun the boat around in a real tight circle, and that dumped him.” The young man laughed with delight at the memory. “The only time Mo got up, and he gets dumped.”
“That made Mo angry?”
“Well, Mr. Z did that with all of us,” Jason said. “I mean, it was just part of the fun.” He drew circles in the air. “You know, you drive the boat in a circle tighter and tighter, and pretty soon the skier can’t keep the slack out of the tow rope and you just kinda sink. If you’re paying attention, you can hand-over-hand some of the ski rope slack, but that don’t work for very long. Anyways, Mo couldn’t do that. Stayin’ up was his big accomplishment, and then he got dumped.”
“Well, big fizz,” I said. “The kid can’t take a little horseplay. Is that what you’re saying?” I had no idea where all this was headed, but the two boys were talking then, and I didn’t want it to stop.
Jason nodded. “He got mad last week ‘cause Mr. Z bet him a buck that he couldn’t take me.”
“What do you mean, he couldn’t take you?”
The lad looked pained. “We rode out on Highland a little bit. I was trying to sell him my old Peugeot,” and he turned and nodded at a well-worn ten-speed that hung from the wall. “Just a little test ride. Mr. Z was out there that day, too. He was workin’ on the grader. Seems like it was broke down more than it worked.”
“And you stopped to visit?”
“Yep. Just to shoot the breeze for a minute or two.”
“Any refreshments that day?”
Jason smiled slyly. “No.” He looked sideways at me to see just how gullible I was.
“And this ‘take you’ business?” I prompted.
“Mr. Z kinda poked Mo in the gut, you know. He was just joking around, but he’s always after Mo, every chance he gets. He’d say, ‘When’s the baby due?’ or shit like that.”
“There’s an old adage about a pot and a kettle,” I said. “Did Mo ever give back as good as he got?”
Jason shook his head slowly. “He’s just not too good at that. He just gets mad and goes off by himself.”
“That’s what happened that day?”
“Well, sort of. Mr. Z is all into boxing, you know. He was always saying that he wanted to get a club started in town. And then he kind of stepped back a little, standing there like a referee or something with his hands on his hips. ‘Winner gets the buck,’ he said. ‘Hell, make it five.’”
“Winner? He wanted you and Mo to fight, you mean?”
“Sure. I knew he was jokin’. But I don’t think Mo did. I pretended to get set.” Jason held up two fists, fighter like, and glowered over his knuckles. A good glower, too. I would have been convinced.