Chapter 5

The relatively short walk to the garage was mostly uphill. Charlie cursed the city's rolling hills under his breath softly as he panted, nearing the hill's precipice. As he turned into the parking lot, something suddenly hit him in the back of the ankle. He turned, a little surprised, and looked down. A tennis ball had come to a halt by his feet. Gingerly, he bent down and picked it up, looking around for its owner. A young blond girl ran up to him, innocent, but wet eyes flickering between his and the tennis ball in a silent question. He took in the bruises and the cuts on her hands, knees, and elbows, and then he heard the snickering. Three little boys were quietly laughing to themselves on the other side of the street. He frowned, raising an eyebrow, and dropped to one knee in front of the girl, putting on his best concerned face.

"Is this your ball?" He asked with a smile. She nodded, and Charlie handed it back to her, earning himself a small smile, which revealed two missing bottom teeth. He grinned back.

"Thanks, mister!"

"Don't mention it. Now, are those boys bothering you?"

"Yeah, they said they wanted to play, but then they stole my ball and pushed me down and called me names." Her lower lip trembled again as she said it. Charlie nodded in sympathy.

"I see. Well, ah, that's just terrible, now isn't it? But I have a little tip for you, if it should happen again."

She looked at him with such eager intensity that he couldn't help but chuckle, and leaned forward, whispering his secret in her ear. She flashed him a full smile when he pulled back and straightened up.

"So do you think you can remember that?" He asked, putting his hands on his hips and giving the boys a stern look. They were beginning to appear nervous.

"Yes sir!" Came the saluted reply. Charlie laughed, laying a hand on the girl's head and ruffling her blond hair.

"Good kid. What's your name, anyway?" The girl bit her lip with a shy giggle and twirled in her puffy skirt.

"Rebecca," she answered after a moment.

"Nice to meet you, Rebecca. I'm Charlie. Now, listen, if those boys bother you again, you just, ah, do what I told you, alright?"

She nodded and waved at him as he motioned her off, and skipped across the street. He turned around and continued his trek towards the garage, when he heard the distinct noises of young boys calling names, and then a muted thwap sound, followed by the G-rated threats and insults only Charlie could come up with on the fly and leave in the arsenal of a child tennis player.

Just as he was about to enter the shop, a lone car rolled by with the top down. Charlie did a double take as a somewhat familiar pair of eyes met his on the way past, followed by a girlish quirk of softly painted lips. And then, she was gone, her tail lights the only reminder of the fact that he had really just seen her again in a city that big. A lopsided smile settled itself on his face as he ducked under the half-pulled garage door.

From somewhere, a radio played Miami Sound Machine, and he slid across the hood of a small sedan and danced his way through the garage while throwing suave greetings around, coming to a halt on his feet underneath a swinging florescent light and crouching into a squat besides a body that looked more like an oil slick with legs than a man.

"How is she, Doc?" He murmured. The man on the ground sat up and wiped his hands off on his gray jumpsuit.

"Well, Smooth, I'm afraid-"

The mechanic never got to finish, as Charlie groaned and buried his face in his hands with an exasperated and worried "Oh God." His mechanic laughed, clapping him on the back, heedless of the oil and grease still on his skin.

"I was gonna say I'm afraid she's better than ever. Yep, looks like you'll be stuck with this junker for quite some time. You know, I have an eighty-six IROC z-twenty-eight you might be interested in…"

The look Charlie gave him could have sliced daggers through his corneas.

"Carlos, my man…you may be like a brother to me, but if you ever, and I mean ever suggest I get a new car without good reason, I will gut you and, ah, use your innards as packing for sausages designed to feed the homeless."

Carlos brushed at his moustache for a moment, seeming to mull this over, before shrugging.

"Alright, Smooth, you've got your piece of shit battleship back. Try not to massacre your suspension this time, alright? Goddamn, you must take the hills at like, one-ten or something!"

Charlie chuckled, rolling his eyes at Carlos, and slapped a wad of bills into his hand.

"This should cover it. Nice job polishing her up, by the, ah, way. Thanks for that."

Carlos held out a hand, and Charles helped him to his feet.

"Yeah, you can thank Tony for that next time you see him. You and him, man…I dunno what's so special about this car of yours, but I guess I'm the only one not gettin' it." He clicked his tongue a few times and resettled his red baseball cap on top of his messy black mane.

Charlie shook his head and jumped over the door into the driver's seat, and settled in with a smirk. He let his hand fall to the shifter, feeling the reality of it in his palm. He'd missed his car. From his seat, he looked up at Carlos, who was still toying with his facial hair, now using Charlie's side mirror as a means to inspect himself.

"That's just it, Carlos. This was Tony's good luck ride, remember? The reason we get it and you don't is because now, we're gettin' it and you're not!" With that, Charlie plucked his keys out of the stunned mechanic's hand and brought his baby to life.

The 1967 bright yellow Chevy Camaro seemed to roar in the tiny garage as its pistons fired happily, and it peeled out as Carlos began to shout a string of Spanish expletives at its rear bumper. The little kids were long gone and the street was still empty, and Charles took the tight downhill corner at a higher speed than he knew he should have. The Camaro, though, didn't seem to complain, and simply purred as he raced along the varying road, a seasoned sailor experiencing a rush in the middle of a turbulent storm.

For a while, Charles just drove. The radio humored him with some of his favorite songs, including making him laugh as AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" began to play right as he took an on-ramp to the nearest stretch of California highway. The entire car thrummed with his heartbeat, and he felt like a bird. He was but a yellow blur in an asphalt world, and that suited him just fine.

Finally, he began to make his way back home, and took the slow way back through a few cities on the outskirts of San Francisco. Carlos had done a great job- she handled better than ever.

It was sheer luck that, as the streets grew more and more familiar and he came to a full stop at a set of lights, a flash of white and shining gold caught his attention. His heart skipped a few beats and fluttered in his chest. Corrinne Wilson looked up from her seat at an outdoor café, the brilliant lemon color of the Camaro impossible to ignore in her peripheral vision. Charlie grinned at her, and she looked a little shocked, but then proceeded to smile back gently. The traffic signal light turned green just then, and reluctantly, Charlie pulled forward, but made a quick turn around the block, and circled back down the same road he'd just came up.

Corrinne was just paying for her coffee and lunch as she stood up, her white suit smartly showing off just what kind of woman she was. Charlie slowed down, thankful there was no one behind him, and pulled up along side her, car moving at a snail's pace. Corrinne shook her head in laughter.

"Small world, huh?" He called over to her. She looked over at him.

"Either that, or you're stalking me, mister rock star." He shrugged.

"Would you, ah, complain if I was?"

Corrinne didn't answer, instead shifting the weight of her purse. Her look of amusement didn't falter, however, so Charlie took the initiative again.

"You know, there's one way to stop me from bumping into you like this."

"Oh?" She looked coy. God, if his stomach didn't stop flip flopping he was going to need the interior detailed again.

"Yeah. We could, you know, go for a drive. You would probably be able to tell if I'm stalking you about halfway through the trip."

"Then what? Are you going to take me out to some remote location and murder me with your axe?" She made strumming motions as she spoke so he'd catch the joke.

"Hmm…well, ah, probably not at first. I was thinking we could, ah, go to the beach or catch a movie, if you're interested."

"Then will you murder me with your axe?"

"Yes, then I will take you out to the darkest alley I can find and strum you senseless."

Corrinne made a face at their terrible pun and gestured to her clothes.

"I can't. I have to get back to work."

"So do I."

"And just what is it that you do, exactly?"

Charlie came to a stop at the corner, listening to the click of heels that had been moving in time with the rotation of his motor also cease for a moment as Corrinne waited for the crosswalk signal to change.

"I'm a, ah, freelance conversationalist and a professional day-brightener." He answered casually.

Corrinne giggled, and he was elated to hear it. It was adorable. Her head lolled in his direction, teeth flashing white.

"But I'm working." She stressed.

"Are you good at your job?"

"Yes."

"In with the boss?"

"As much as possible."

"Had a vacation or sick day recently?"

"None at all."

"Then get in the car."

The crosswalk light blinked white, but there was no one to notice it, because Corrinne had hopped into Charles' Camaro like a pro (even in a skirt), and they were thundering back down towards the highway, the roads taking them wherever she wanted to go, as long as he could go there with her.

"I feel like we're back in fuckin' arts and crafts."

"Thank God we no longer have bunk beds."

Sleaze, Bulldog, and Shane sat on the living room floor, which was amassed with piles of paper. Some were intact, others were cut up into little strips. Each of them wielded a pair of scissors, and were busy cutting the full size sheets into manageable portions for their project.

Bulldog's genius idea to find Charlie a job had turned out to be more work than it seemed worth. The boys had gathered every single newspaper, qualified help wanted application, and job offer they could find from the last week and a half that was located in San Francisco, and laid them out on the living room floor. Their first task was to sort the repeats, and their second was to cut out the remainder. Those strips were to be placed in a hat, and then every day, each of them would have to reach in and choose one strip at random. They would then play "Rock, Paper, Scissors" until there was only one winner, and the winner would hand his strip to Charlie, who would have to go check out the listed job or be harassed mercilessly, forever.

They had been at the sorting portion of their task for a few hours, and were finally down to cutting up the last few want ads. Sleaze wiggled his fingers in the handles of the scissors and winced.

"Damn, I think he should pay us for this! We've worked our fingers to the bone. Fuck, ya think we can sue him for minimum wage?"

"Nah, he'll hand our asses to us on a silver platter." Bulldog ran a hand over his fade, placing another bundle of clippings in the hat.

"Which would cost more than our combined salaries." Shane added.

Suddenly, there were no more papers to cut, and the three of them sank back into the lofty stacks of furniture cushions, bed pillows, and throw pillows they had also surrounded themselves with. A collective sigh escaped the three band mates.

"Ya think he was serious about us gettin' jobs?"

"Probably."

"So…are we gonna get jobs?" Sleaze sounded timid, which was unusual for the burly man.

"Oh hell no."

"Good."

"'Dog?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you really think this is, like, gonna work?"

"I sure as shit hope so, Shane, I sure as shit hope so."

"Yeah, otherwise we're gonna have to do this again next week."

Everyone groaned.

A few minutes of silence without the sound of snipping followed before a key hit the door lock, and Charlie materialized in the doorway, looking absolutely blissful. He was humming to himself as he hung his keys on the hook beside the door, and was just about to slither out of his jacket when he noticed the three sets of bloodshot eyes staring at him from the floor, ready to pounce.

"Oh shit." Was all he had time to muster before his bandmates tackled him to the floor, the newly dubbed "fedora of mystery" carefully in tow.