Restore My Heart (2 page)

He stepped back, turned as if to leave, then hesitated. “How’d you know it was a fifty-four?”

“Kaiser only made the Darrin one year.”

His eyes widened. “Impressive. I guess you do know your classics.”

She nodded, but didn’t offer to walk him out. Her bad leg throbbed from standing. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Joe.”

“I look forward to it.”

Not as much as I do
. She frowned at his back, feeling less attractive than ever in her wardrobe of grimy overalls and the fragrance of Eau de Engine Cleaner.

Strains of
Dead Man’s Curve
blasted from the reproduction Wurlitzer crammed between the door and the cigarette machines at the Universal Joint. Located in an old frame storefront on the restored town square of Jeffersontown, the Universal Joint catered to the car buffs and nostalgia seekers in Louisville’s east end.

Greeted by the odor of cigarette smoke and old wood, Sally wrinkled her nose as she made her way to the bar. Her gaze searched the room before zeroing in on her favorite bartender—Uncle Sal.

He smiled, waving her over. “You’re late!”

“I’ve been doing battle with the transmission on a Pontiac Tempest.” She slid onto the vinyl covered bar stool.

He filled a pilsner glass from the tap. “A sixty-two? With the rear transaxle?”

“You got it. That was after I rebuilt the generator.” She sighed, reaching for the beer. “Thanks.”

“You work too hard.”

“Look who’s talking. You’re supposed to be retired, Uncle Sal, not tending bar every night in this dive.”

He grinned. “This? This ain’t work. This is fun.”

“Mustang Sally’s would be fun if I could just break even.”

He frowned. “You still losing customers?”

“Let’s face it. The new competition is cleaning my clock. It’s almost like Dan Alsop timed the opening of his business for when you retired.”

“Dan Alsop? He still taking away your customers?”

Except Joe Desalvo. “Well, I do have a new job coming in tomorrow. A real classic.”

“That’s great, honey. What is it?”

She swallowed the cold beer, then took another sip. “Leo Desalvo’s Kaiser Darrin.”

“Leo had a Darrin? He never said.”

“Apparently he acquired it right before his—”

“Yeah.” Sal nodded. “I sure miss the guy. He’d stop by here at least once a week.”

She fingered the condensation on her glass. “I know. I miss him, too.”

“In the old days, the three of us would meet up after work for a few beers.”

“Three of you?”

Jennifer, one of the waitresses squeezed into short-short overalls and a clingy Universal Joint T-shirt, rattled off a drink order, interrupting their conversation.

“How’s it going, Jennifer?”

“Same old same old, Sally.” The blonde tapped bright pink fingernails against the Formica. “Has Sal gotten your sandwich yet?”

“No hurry.”

“If she didn’t hang out at the Universal Joint, half the time she’d forget to eat dinner.” Sal handed Jennifer her drink tray. “Bring her the usual.”

“Grilled hot pepper cheese on Texas toast, right?” At Sally’s nod, Jennifer hoisted the tray and left.

“What were you saying about the old days?” Sally prompted Sal back to their discussion.

“Me, Leo, and Vic Bloom. Speak of the devil.” Sal nodded toward the door.

Vic Bloom, a man of considerable girth, loomed at the entrance. He squinted— although he always appeared to be squinting—then ambled toward a vacant booth against the wall. Sal caught Vic’s attention and waved. Vic’s thin mouth curled at one side. He nodded in their direction before plopping down onto the bench.

“Looks as if he’s still waiting for Leo, doesn’t he?” Sally shook her head. “He seems lost now.”

“You’re right. He’s waiting for somebody or he’d be over here giving me a hard time.”

Another waitress, dressed in the uniform of overall shorts and tight T-shirt, barked an order for drinks, then smiled at Sally. “How’s it going?”

Sally struggled to remember the woman’s name. Lynette? No, Monette. “Can’t bellyache about much. How about you?”

“Not bad tonight, since Sal’s tending bar.”

“He always did make work fun. He was my boss for years, you know.”

Monette elbowed her. “Ooh, baby. Get a load of the stud muffin making his way to Vic’s booth.”

Sally twisted on the bar stool for a better look. Her pulse accelerated. “The stud muffin is Joe Desalvo, Leo’s son.”

“Joey’s here?” Sal handed the tray of drinks to Monette, then stared at the two men. “So that’s who Vic was waiting for.”

Monette slipped away to deliver drinks, then hurried over to Joe and Vic to take their orders. Along the way she smoothed her T-shirt against her ample breasts, then tugged at her shorts, exposing even more of her thighs.

Sally chuckled. “I see Monette’s trolling.”

“Monette’s okay, Sally. At least she has a social life.”

Sally choked on her beer, then coughed. “Social life?” She carefully placed the glass on the bar. “Is that a euphemism for sex life?”

“Euphemism? How you talk, young lady.”

Sally grinned. It was just like Uncle Sal to fuss about the word euphemism instead of the word sex.

“Anyway, you could use a social life, honey.”

“I get out every night.”

“You come here.” He swept his hand through the air, his wave encompassing the smoke-filled bar and grill. “You go work out. That ain’t no social life. Maggie says she never sees you. When’s the last time you called her, huh?”

Sally had seen too little of her cousin, and she missed her. They’d once been best friends. She should at least give Maggie a call.

Jennifer returned with another order for drinks, sparing Sally from answering her uncle. “Look out, Sally. Here comes Orel.”

Sally groaned. “Just shoot me, okay?”

“Hey, the guy likes you. What can I say?”

“I look good to him only after a few beers.”

Orel Baxter, a skinny mechanic with a teenager’s case of acne and a head of flaming red hair pruned into a flat top, claimed the bar stool beside her. “Hi, Sally.”

She tried for a smile. “Hey, Orel.”

“Buy you a beer?”

“No, thanks. I have one.” She looked past him at two former co-workers who approached the bar. “Hey, Mitch. Hey, Lamar. Come join us.”

“Howdy, Miss Sally.” Mitch answered. Lamar followed with an identical response.

The two African-Americans had been loyal employees at Mustang Sally’s before Sal had sold it. When they’d moved on to jobs at a nearby franchised transmission shop, there were no hard feelings. Sally couldn’t afford to keep them, nor could they afford the uncertainty of new management. Sally knew the job change wasn’t personal. She adored both men, who had patiently taught her most of what she knew about transmissions. Mitch’s sister, Laquita, gave Sally great haircuts at a discount.

Sally grinned. “Grab a seat and tell me in twenty-five words or less everything I need to know about the flexible drive shaft on a Pontiac Tempest.”

“A sixty-two?” asked Lamar.

“Rear transaxle?” asked Mitch.

Orel swiveled on the bar stool. “Stick or automatic?”

Grinning, she reached for her fanny pack. “Bartender? Three drafts for these guys.”

Joe pulled his gaze from the waitress’ uniform, no easy task considering the woman’s appreciable attributes. Vic Bloom had picked this place to meet. Having seen the hired help, Joe could guess why. The decor and atmosphere with its hot rod theme and classic car memorabilia were right up Vic’s alley, too. Strains of
Hey, Little Cobra
drifted from the jukebox.

“Make mine a cup of coffee,” Joe said. “Black.”

“Sure I can’t get anything else for you, sugar?”

“Not right now, thanks.”

As she moved away, Vic winked. “Monette has the hots for you, Joey.”

“I think she’s just being friendly.”

“Wish she’d give me some of that sugar.” Vic wiggled his eyebrows and grinned.

“Down, boy. You have Barbara waiting at home.”

The older man shook his head. “Not tonight. She’s taking a class at Shelby campus. She’s on another one of her self-improvement kicks.”

“Can’t fault her for that.”

Vic grunted in response, stuffing a cigarette between his lips. Joe dropped the subject of Vic’s wife. His gaze swept the room, then boomeranged to the bar, where female grease monkey Sally Clay appeared to be holding court. Her baggy overalls in stark contrast to the costumes the waitresses wore, she moved her hands in animated discussion. Several men, including the bartender, leaned toward her, joining her in laughter at whatever she said.

Although his first impression of the woman had been that of a plain Jane, something about her had invited a second look. Flecks of paint and streaks of grease hid an interesting face. Cocoa-brown eyes with thick, curly lashes devoid of that gunk most women painted on, impressed him until he’d discovered those plump lips. Luscious, kissable lips, not that he’d be doing any of
that
with her. But she had a mouth like that movie star, Angelina something or other. Her short hair, so different from the hairstyles of the power-suited women in his office, had been flattened against her head by a pair of smudged safety goggles.

Tonight she’d cleaned up and ditched the goggles, showcasing a head of thick brown hair. Although he’d come here to talk to Vic about his mother’s half of the business, Joe tuned out the man, straining to hear the banter at the bar. Though certainly not his type in the romantic sense, Sally Clay piqued his curiosity.

A commotion at the jukebox halted conversation in the room, including Vic’s.

“It’s nine o’clock,” one of the waitresses yelled.

“So?” Joe looked to Vic for an explanation.

“Time for the song.” With a half-smile, Vic rubbed out his cigarette butt in the ashtray.

One of the waitresses cranked up the volume on the jukebox and the crowd at the bar began to sing along to a song about a GTO. Sally led the group, obviously familiar with all the lyrics. Judging by the singing scattered throughout the room, there were a lot of regulars at the Universal Joint. Even Vic joined in, his voice off-key.

After the sing-along, the volume on the jukebox returned to normal. Joe asked, “Did Dad come here often?”

“Your dad loved this place, Joey, but he rarely stayed late enough to sing the song. He’d have a cold one, talk cars with a few of the guys, then hurry home to Lucinda.”

Joe nodded toward the bar. “Guys and Sally. Right?”

“Sally’s just one of the guys.” Vic waved a dismissive hand.

Joe’s gaze returned to the bar. “I wouldn’t say that.”

The brunette waitress he’d called Monette returned with their order and smiled at Joe. “Sure you don’t want something to eat?”

“No, thanks.”

She patted Vic on the shoulder. “I’ll be back to check on you.”

“You do that, honey,” Vic answered around a mouthful of fries.

“So what’s the story on Sally Clay?”

Vic swallowed. “She’s a qualified-enough mechanic, if that’s what you mean. Her daddy raised her to be one. She was working in the pits by the time she was a teenager.”

“Pits?”

“Yeah. Car racing pit crew. Damn, boy, didn’t you learn anything about automobiles from Leo?”

Joe squeezed his eyes shut against the censure in Vic’s voice. He’d learned nothing about cars from his dad except that they made his family a living. It shamed him to realize how little he’d known about the man. Now it was too late.

“I didn’t mean to bring up Leo.” Vic softened his tone as much as he could above the cacophony of music, laughter, and conversation. “It’s hard for me, too, Joey. Everything I do, I think to myself, ‘I need to run this by Leo,’ or ‘Wait till I tell Leo.’ Then I remember Leo’s gone and I’m never gonna talk to him again.” Vic pounded his fist against the table.

Joe blinked. “You sound angry.”

“I’m mad as hell at Leo for dying.”

Joe was mad as hell, too, but at himself. How could he have missed the signs? He’d distanced himself from his father to the extent he hadn’t seen anything was wrong. He’d had no idea how the man must have suffered. Shoving the thoughts aside, he returned to business. “Well, we didn’t come here to mourn Dad tonight. We need to discuss Mom and her role at Bloom Desalvo Motors.”