Gingerly, Harry took the proffered wheel, getting as dirty as Mildred in the process.
Neither woman much cared about the rubber smudges or grease. Two motorheads from different generations had found each other.
“Should I put it back on the pile?”
“Yes, indeed.” Mildred picked up a wheel, same size, from the right pile. “Try this.”
The difference in weight, immediately apparent, surprised Harry. “I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it.” Mildred’s coral lips snapped shut. “Now, looking at these two piles, can you tell the difference?”
“No, ma’am, I can’t.”
“Come on.” Mildred pointed to the cart again, and soon they were back in the office. “These are well-behaved animals,” she said, once they’d all settled in.
“Thank you.”
“I’m well behaved. The others are dreadful,” Pewter purred, rubbing against Mildred’s leg.
“Honey, like I said, not too many people are interested in my work here, in how cars are made today. They should be. Their lives depend on it. Now they focus on new models, focus on the makers, but they don’t focus on parts. There are only crash standards for the original manufacturers’ parts. I’m not one for regulation—I think we’re overregulated—but here’s a case where there’s nothing. I can fix your car with a plastic part made to look like metal. Will it hold up in a crash? No.”
“I had no idea, and I love cars. Until you handed me those wheels, I couldn’t have known what you were talking about.”
Mildred grimaced. “It’s like the mortuary industry. People don’t want to think about dying, and they don’t want to think about car wrecks, either. It’s not a part of their daily life until it happens to them.”
Harry nodded.
Mildred scrutinized Harry, then continued, “Here’s the thing, and I go ’round about this. All carmakers want you and me to replace damaged engine parts with their parts, electrical stuff, and so on. They guarantee those parts. Aftermarket parts are a lot cheaper, so people can get their cars repaired cheaper. Some folks would say that’s good because if you use only, say, GM parts, then GM has squeezed out the copycat, so that’s no competition. The consumer loses. I understand that.” Mildred paused for full effect. “But what’s more important: anti-monopoly or your safety? ’Cause I sure can tell you, the Chinese don’t give a fig about your safety, and I’m thinking the insurance companies don’t, either.”
“Why?”
She exploded, “They don’t care about safety and they don’t want to cover big repair bills.”
“Yes,” Harry agreed. “Wow, what a mess.”
“The insurance companies are bleating about consumer choice, the carmakers want to protect their reputations, and maybe they do want to shove out the copycats, but I tell you what, I see poorly made cars; trucks come in here even after stripped and still have blood on them. Gets to me every time.”
“It would me.” Harry changed the subject. “Are you the only person working here? This is a big place.”
Mildred leaned against the counter. “No. Have two fellows working here; sent them off to bring me a late lunch and get some for themselves. I have two kids; ’course, they’re in their forties now. Drew and I sent them both to college. They don’t want no part of this business. Don’t want to get their hands dirty.”
“This is a good business.” Harry emphasized “good.”
“Young people are different now. Forty is young to me. No one wants to work with their hands.” She peered at Harry again, noting the dust on her jeans, a few pieces of hay in her hair. “Not many want to farm, either.”
“Millie, I wouldn’t be farming if I hadn’t inherited it. No way could I afford land, the equipment, seeds, and fertilizer and make a go of it.”
“Sucks,” Millie succinctly responded. “Tell you what, though, your mama and papa sure were lucky to have a girl who wanted to keep the family business going. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I know I should retire, but this is my life. What would I do? Watch I Love Lucy reruns?”
“She was the best.” Harry grinned.
“That she was.” Mildred shifted her weight. “When the economy comes back up, I reckon I will sell the business. Don’t rightly know.”
They chatted a bit more, then Harry thanked her profusely, making a mental note to send over some special canned foods she’d put up last year. Harry knew she’d be back. Something about Mildred touched her. She didn’t dwell on it, she just knew she’d be back.
Mildred gave her a big hug as Harry put her hand on the doorknob, the three furry friends at her feet.
“Millie, what do you drive?”
“Ha.” Mildred clapped her hands. “A big-ass 1962 Impala convertible. They can all get out of my way.”
Driving out of the salvage yard, Harry pictured the round little lady in the big Chevy.
Bored with I-64, she drove to Waynesboro the back way.
“Hey, let’s go to the drag strip. No one’s there.”
Tucker’s brown eyes registered worry. “You’d better not do anything with this car.”
Fifteen minutes later, the black WRX STI glided onto the grounds of Central Virginia Hot Rod Track. Harry drove right up to the Christmas tree.
“That’s a lot of lights,” Mrs. Murphy remarked.
“I so want to do the quarter mile.” Harry’s hands gripped the steering wheel. “Well, I can’t. It’s not right to do that in a car I haven’t paid for, but how can I do it otherwise? I mean, they’ll never let me race here, and I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.”
“Don’t,” Pewter howled. “You do enough crazy stuff.”
“What the hell?” Harry exclaimed. Coming around the bleachers in front of her at a fast clip was a charcoal Porsche 911. She checked her rearview: Behind her was a yellow Camaro. Harry couldn’t see the drivers, but she knew if she didn’t do something she’d be trapped. She put her foot on the brake, gunned the motor, took the brake off, and shot down the track so fast that the Porsche braked hard.
“Something’s wrong,” Mrs. Murphy cried.
Tucker, trying to balance herself, looked through the two front seats. “They’re trying to trap her!”
Pewter, crouching on the footwell behind the seat, shouted, “Make her stop.”
Mrs. Murphy summed up the situation. “If she stops, we’re toast.”
The jet acceleration gave Harry confidence. At the end of the quarter mile, she turned sharply, skidding out, for the Porsche hung hot on her tail. The Camaro driver seemed to hesitate. Perhaps he had the brains to know if he tried to block her she’d plow right through him, maybe killing them both.
Harry had guts: She called his bluff. The Camaro accelerated out of her way, and she felt the shock waves as she blew by that beautiful yellow tail. As she rocked by the Camaro, she saw Latigo Bly behind the wheel.
Harry now headed for the state road, praying that someone would see them and call the police. No way could she reach her cellphone.
She was running for her life, very glad the seat belts were good.
She hooked left, skidding out again. This time the Camaro disappeared, only to reappear emerging from the back way into Central Virginia Hot Rod Track.
Fearlessly, Harry aimed straight for him again. Latigo backed up in a hurry, stones flying from under the wheels.
As they were not yet near housing or commercial buildings, her two pursuers had two miles to bring her down. Given the quality of their cars and the skill with which they handled them, they just might succeed.