Part IV
Late Summer in New Orleans. The humidity in the air clung to her brown skin, making the light, pale yellow sundress she wore limp against her figure. It clung uncomfortably to her in all the wrong places. She had broken out in a sweat and was at present, wiping her damp hair out of her face with one hand and jiggling the gear shift aggressively with the other. The carefully pressed curls were beginning to revert to their natural tightness – all that money spent to straighten it going down the tubes.
A line of cars in back of her honked and snorted as she frantically stomped on the clutch and gas alternately, trying desperately to make the car move.
It choked, sputtered and lurched in protest, giving nothing but a nasty backfire. Finally, the cars just started going around her as she was finally able to pull the car over to the side of the road in a grassy plane.
On the verge of tears, but too stubborn to cry, she slumped down in the cracked leather seats of her newly-acquired and seriously decrepit 1970 Dodge Charger. Now that the car was off, the heat was stifling, and there was absolutely no breeze moving outside.
The streets of New Orleans were small and narrow—good enough for single-lane only traffic patterns. Finally, she got up the nerve to open the car door and ignore the nasty glares of other drivers as they shot accusing stares at the person responsible for the car that had just created a massive traffic jam on Toledano.
Ignoring the honks and beeps, and the occasional leer, Isobel made her way to the other side of the car, away from the traffic and took out her cell phone to dial her insurance company.
"Goddamn it's hot in here! Barney when are you gonna install an a/c unit in this sweatshop?" The booming voice of his best friend rattled off the various pieces of metal strewn about the garage as Barney emerged from under the hood of the old truck, its hoses and contents spilling out.
"And what am I going to cool off? The outside?" Barney wiped his hands off on an old oil rag before walking over to shake Tool's hand and give his friend a slap on the back.
"What brings you in here, Tool? How's the studio comin'?"
"It's coming," Tool said, walking around the garage a minute before finding a spare tire, sitting down and propping his worn leather boots up on a tool cabinet. His leather pants squeaked as he sat on the rubber, his swede vest swung open, revealing a heavily tattooed chest, skin bronzed and slightly rubbery-looking from decades of exposure, and the new beginnings of a beer belly emerging from a still somewhat in-shape physique.
The shop's owner cast a sideways glance at his guest, before walking around the truck to a small fridge tucked in a corner. He walked back around with a beer in each hand and offered one to his friend before sitting down on an old folding chair nearby.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence as they nursed the beers for a moment.
"So, how long we going to do this?" Barney said, taking another swig of his stout. Tool sighed and lazily ran a hand through his hair.
"I told you already, brother, I'm out. That last mission—that was it for me."
"Huh."
Another swig of beer.
"You started lookin' for new recruits yet?" Tool asked.
"Got a few prospects."
"Oh?" Tool asked trying to sound nonchalant.
"Yep." Barney replied, deliberately keeping one-word answers.
They'd been inactive now for more than a year, the original team disbanding after their last mission had gone terribly wrong. And while they were eventually successful, it had cost valuable friendships, and ultimately for Tool—the decision to call it quits.
Barney had heard through the channels that their former Teammate, Trench Mauser, had already formed a new team. Well, better for him, Barney thought. It was because of Trench that they had almost gotten killed.
Against the orders of he and Tool, Trench, who had always felt that because he was older than the rest, should be the one in charge. And his resentment toward Barney had festered over the years until he'd decided he was no longer taking orders. The result: a tripped alarm, an entire army on their asses, one teammate dead, and both he and Tool getting shot.
They'd been lucky to get out alive. And of course, Trench was nowhere to be found in the ensuing quagmire.
So yeah, he was bitter about it. Anyone would be after getting screwed over by a person who was supposed to have your back.
After that, it was time for a vacation. The bullet had gone through his side, missing vital organs but causing a shitload of damage that was, judging by the sharp pains that still plagued him when he turned suddenly, still healing.
Barney had gone back to his shop in the Central Business District and Tool had decided to open up a bar and tattoo salon a few blocks over, down in the Quarter.
"So who're you lookin' at?" Tool asked.
Before Barney could answer, a dark shadow blocked the sunlight from the garage and the sound of a rattling engine greeted them. A tow-truck had just pulled in.
Barney got up and walked out of a side door to go around the garage to the front and see what was attached. Tool followed.
The driver was unloading a black, beat-up Dodge Charger that had seen better days.
"You Barney Ross?" He asked, as Barney nodded, still looking at the car with one eyebrow raised.
"Good." The driver turned and moved to the cab of the truck and opened the passenger door. Ross and Tool watched as two red and white polka dot encased toes peeped out, followed by a set of long, smooth brown legs, and ultimately, the rest of a yellow-clad figure.
"Well goddamn," Tool whispered nudging Barney and letting out a low whistle as a dark-haired woman in a yellow dress clinging wetly against her skin walked over to them.
"Mr. Ross?" She asked looking at Tool and then to Barney.
Seeing the leer that had begun to cross his friend's face, Barney quickly spoke up.
"That's me. What can I do for you? That your car?" He said, angling his head in the direction of the Charger, now sitting in front of the garage. The tow-truck driver had already pulled away.
She glared at the car a moment with a look of pure hatred before turning back to Barney, and sighing with resignation.
"Unfortunately, yes." She said.
"Why unfortunately?" Barney asked, moving to get a closer look at the vehicle appraising its condition.
He'd always had a thing for this particular make and model. It was all steel, and built like a tank. He was old enough to remember what it was like when the model was new—back when American cars were known for their powerful engines and aggressive builds.
The charger was an especially gorgeous piece of American craftsmanship. The body emulated the sleek curves of a woman and that, coupled with her power, made her a car everyone wanted to own. Shit, he even drove one once himself.
"I say 'unfortunately' because, as of today, this car and I are no longer friends. I just want whatever is wrong with it fixed, so I can sell it."
"You want to sell this?" He said, turning to face her again, eyebrows raised.
"Well, what else am I going to do with it? It was left to me by my grandfather's brother. I have a car of my own already."
At this, Barney couldn't help but snort.
"Let me guess. You drive a Prius." He said.
"How'd you know?" She said. At the surprised look on her face, Barney started laughing.
"Call it an educated guess."
She crossed her arms and pursed her lips at him and Barney realized he'd probably just insulted her.
"I'm sorry", he said, sticking out his hand. "I didn't mean to insult you. I'll fix your car for you so you can sell it, Ms.…"
She looked at his hand, and then at him, before unfolding her arms and taking his hand.
"Isobel Rannick."
"Barney Ross." He shook her hand, noticing how her fingers were long and slender, but still much smaller compared to his own, rough and calloused ones.
Just then, two more cars pulled up, including a Prius.
"And there's my rental," she said, a smile playing at the side of her lips as two men dressed in the pastel shirt and khaki standard of customer service representatives, climbed out and began walking toward them.
"Guess I was right about that Prius."
This earned him a resounding laugh from his new customer that culminated in a snort, which made him grin.
"Tell you what Ms. Rannick," he started.
"Isobel, please."
"Okay, Isobel. I'll fix your car. But before you set your mind on selling it, once I fix it, drive it a while, and if you don't like how it feels, I'll buy it from you."
She looked at him again, this time, the surprise making her dark green eyes light up. Her mouth tipped up in a tremulous smile and he couldn't help but grin back at her.
"Is that a deal Mr. Ross?" She asked, sounding sly. He offered her his hand again and she took it.
"It's a deal."
With that, he turned and walked back into the garage while she dealt with the rental car people, and came back a short while later with service slips in hand. He took down her information and handed her his card.
"I'll give you a call with the parts, and what all it's going to need. I'm not going to promise you it'll be cheap—the car is pretty old, but I'm going to make sure it's fair. I'll take care of you."
The last part came out before he could stop the words but she didn't seem to catch it and was already climbing into her rented Prius.
"Thank you Mr. Ross!" She called as she backed up. "That's my cell phone I wrote down. It's the best way to reach me."
And with that, Isobel Rannick, the woman with the clingy, yellow-dress, drove off, leaving Barney standing in the middle of the driveway, service slips still in hand. Tool coming back out from wherever he'd been and came to stand behind him to watch the tail of the Prius fade away.
"Now that -" Tool said, "-was a damn fine piece of ass."
Barney rolled his eyes at his friend and walked back into his shop.
"What?" Tool asked walking behind him and flopping back down in his previous spot. "You can't say you didn't notice those legs, those hips, that ass…"
Barney shot a mocking look at the older man, and crossed his arms. Tool snorted.
"Don't give me that self-righteous look Barney. You ain't blind."