The guy wasn't even looking at them, just staring around the shop, hands on his hips. “Oye, yo hablo un poco poquito de Español, dude,” the guy said. Cuando toda esa mierda paso en verano, with the Feds, blowing holes in the street, all that. “¿Lo conoces?” Ramón demanded, straight Spanish, with a sharp glare at the stranger. He pulled one headphone sideways on his head. Robbie turned his back on the guy in the flip-flops and followed Ramón.
Tommy, whose toolbox it was, cleared away from Ramón so the car he was working on was between them. Ramón looked sharply from Robbie to the stranger, and then jerked his thumb at Robbie, stalking behind one of the toolboxes. The guy was in a Knicks jersey and flip-flops. Robbie ground his teeth and stomped over.Īs soon as he saw Robbie, the Asian guy yelled something, spreading out his arms in welcome. What he thought he was doing badgering this soft uptowner. He stayed in the back unless he was actively ejecting someone from the premises. Supposedly he'd turned a new leaf in prison. He was locally famous for single-handedly massacring an entire clíqua back in the early Oughts. Ramón Cordova was six-one, almost two hundred pounds, scarred up and covered in tattoos. He was just picking his way through the garage, head down, eyes flickering up and down and to the sides and back over his shoulder, when he saw Ramón Cordova out by the lobby, menacing a skinny Asian guy in a baggy T-shirt and swim trunks. Headed for his locker to grab a dental mirror-actually, part of a yard-sale make-up compact epoxied to an old collapsible antenna-so he could peer into the catalytic converter without taking it all the way off. He shut down the motor before the exhaust gasses could catch anything on fire, and made his notes on the restriction.
This time it ran without issue, albeit loudly, happily belching carbon monoxide and unburned hydrocarbons through the hole. He slid back under the car, unscrewed the pressure gauge from the oxygen sensor hole, hopped back into the driver's seat, and cranked the engine again. Robbie pumped up the volume until his ears ached. Frantic drumming, distorted squeals, and then FUCK THIS FUCK THIS ALL THIS CITY, ALL THIS CITY SOLD ITS SOUL, COME MIERDA POLICIA. Oh, fuck you, you little shit, Eli snarled, and Robbie cranked the volume. Robbie sat down on the creeper and dug out his phone. And these yellow journalists at NPR are slandering my boy Jack. It's not healthy for us to sit around all day, work, work, work, play house with little Gabbie, work, work, work some more. I'm bored, Robbie, Eli said, injecting what should be a petulant statement with pure menace. Downstream of his pressure gauge were the catalytic converter and the muffler Robbie was betting the blockage was in the cat. Robbie threw himself out the door and onto the ground, seized the pressure gauge that dangled from the bottom of the car and glanced at the reading just before the motor died. He got into the Outback's driver's seat and started the engine idling, a few choked chugs. You'll get bored and tell me to switch again. All the workbays at Canelo's Auto and Body were full, but Lenny was nowhere in sight. Robbie grabbed the car by the frame and scooted himself out from underneath. But still, the legend of Jack The Ripper lives on, because the public is not ready to accept that the demon of Fleet Street was merely a handful of common killers. It was only natural for violence to occur. …Prostitution was rife on Fleet Street, attracting sexually-frustrated men as well as lost women to separate them from their money. “Lenny, I need you to crank up this Outback!” He lay on his back on a creeper, the car inches from his nose. He had his headphones on, the client's oxygen sensor unscrewed, a pressure gauge sticking into the exhaust system where the sensor had been. Robbie did his best to tune out the podcast. …While the contemporary news media and later popular mythology also repeated the “Jack The Ripper” legend, what is more likely is that several independent killers selected their victims from Fleet Street, simply as a matter of opportunity.
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