There were a hundred and seven cases of Coors beer in Hank Grady's barn—Coors having been a rarity east of the Muddy for the longest time and Hank, being always on the spy for another fast dollar, had prospected a little overboard—and the remains of one rare 1967 special edition SS 396 Chevrolet Chevelle, the Killafella, wrecked beyond repair, but the engine still tip top, perhaps the greatest engine ever designed by the hands of a man. Or so Hank had said.
Tom knew what the car had meant to Hank. He'd been alive for the tail end of all Hank's bad stunts, running the law like he used to do. It'd always been Hank's plan to rebuild it top to bottom and run it again the way he used to. But, Tom was also old enough to know a lot of things Hank said were probably not ever going to happen. Like fixing the roof on the house so it wouldn't leak all into the laundry room, like it did.
“Daddy,” Tom said. “That was you and Billy's old car. We can't strip it.” Tom hated to see it ripped apart almost as much as Hank did. It'd always been the promise of the past. A marker of when things had been better, somehow.
“Well, son,” Hank said wiping sweat from his brow as he took out the bolts holding the block down tight. “I told you I'd sell you that truck for what you could pay, won't anybody else make you that deal, and part of the deal is to sell you a vehicle that runs.”
Hank finished the last of the bolts and nodded to Tom who hefted up the block like it was a box of pencils and eased it over into the pickup. Matt, who had been watching from the side, made one quick sketch and then checked his Knight Rider watch for the time and had to run. MacGyver was on any minute and he kept a running log of all the stuff MacGyver could make out of old junk, though it didn't do him much good. Mary-Alice was wise to him and any time he asked for anything suspicious, like a bag of rust or gasoline and styrofoam, she refused him outright without a second thought.
“You know,” Hank said. “Your brother's an odd duck.”
Tom looked past the barn at the kid dusting a trail up to the house. The kid had speed, that was for sure. But, then, so did he. He remembered how as a little bitty boy he used to love to run, so fast his mother could barely keep up. He considered, then, the irony of his father's observation. Tom knew full well he was far odder than Matt had shown himself to be. All kids liked comic books and TV shows. Few that Tom knew could snap a two by four over his knee, a feat he'd performed at the behest of Billy Parker while in front of a traveling New Testament salesman at Smith's Farm Supply when Tom was about ten. It had caused quite a shock in the skinny long-legged man who had called him Little Samson. Like in the bible, he'd said. Tom had grown irritable by then when anyone tried to put him on display like that, but that time it'd also earned him a kiss on the mouth from Billy Parker's daughter, Lacy, in the back while no one was looking. There'd been others since, but that one he remembered most of all.
That was one reason he'd always liked Lacy, she was the only other one who'd never treated him like a mutant. The first being Hank. Sometimes, Tom wondered if Hank had even noticed. Hank always had seemed caught up in his own world. When a boy, Tom would tailgrab Hank every bit as bad as the way Matt shadowed him around. Tom had liked that Hank would let him help do chores and work on machines. Tom always liked to work on machines with his daddy. They never talked much, just worked. Even when very young, sometimes Hank would tell Tom to grab some tool and Tom always seemed to know exactly which one he meant. By this time, Tom wondered if he might not know nearly as much about machines and motors as Hank did, though not likely. The Boy Who Talked to Cars is what people had used to call Hank. They had other names for Tom. .44 Caliber Killer was his least favorite. Though, it was a somewhat accurate description of his role on a ballfield. “Number 44 on the sack” came over the loudspeaker more than half every set of downs.
Hank let Tom do most of the work bolting the engine into the pickup, only offering a word here or there if he thought it absolutely a necessity. Tom took the lack of instruction as a point of pride. The less Hank had to say meant he must not be doing anything much wrong, which made him feel pretty good. Hank had a way of making himself known to you if you just let him, Tom figured. Something his mama never seemed to quite grip.
“Son, I reckon you'll do about as good a job finishing up as I ever could,” Hank said, tearing off some of the dirt and grease on his hands with a gob of Gojo. It was the best thing anyone had ever told Tom about himself. “I best get on down the road. I'll have to burn through the night to get it in on time, now. Just wanted to see you through the sticky bits.”
Tom wiped his hands off, and Hank offered him his by way of goodbye. Tom looked again at his father. Though he was easy four inches shorter and a hundred pounds lighter, Tom always saw him as a giant. He took his hand and they shook once, tight. Tom looked down at the racing engine in the pickup. It was the Killafella reborn. It was a legacy, passed down now.
“What'd we say on the pickup, then?” Hank asked, picking up his shirt and hat.
“Thousand,” Tom said.
“Yeah. Better make it six hundred, seeing it's somewhat damaged. You can use the spare for pretties,” Hank said and walked up toward the house. He would want to take a hot shower again before he got on the road, now he was all sweaty and greasy.
Inside the house, Matt had just learned how to set up an explosion using nothing but sawdust and a match.
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