The Big Cat Nap (22 page)

“Are the fake parts defective?”

“Not necessarily, but they aren’t as good. The steel’s never as good, and moving parts are often not packed in thick-enough grease, or there’s a rub years later because the calibration isn’t perfect. Often, when you pick up a motor part not made by the original manufacturer, it’s a hair lighter. Another clue is the fitting holes. If you removed an engine element or, say, this hydraulic pump and saw that the bolt holes were maybe a little elliptical, that would mean aftermarket. They had to fuss with the original hole to make it fit.”

“I did try to look at the hydraulic pump. Chipped my tooth,” Harry joked.

Dabney laughed, then returned to the subject. “Buy the specs. If a model goes out of production, the manufacturer often doesn’t want the bother of producing the old parts. So they sell the specs for old models. It’s easier to use the tooling equipment to produce newer parts, I guess. Now, John Deere doesn’t do that, but—and it’s a big ‘but’—some of these overseas people are smart enough to hack into computers and just plain steal the specs. Anything on a computer is not safe. Hell, even the FBI’s been hacked into.”

“I never thought about that—industrial theft, I mean.”

“Billions. No stopping it, either. If I order a part from John Deere, I talk to the same guy I’ve been working with out there in Illinois for decades. I’ve got the real thing. Same with Ford. I call Ford, not a dealer here.”

“You’re not branching out and fixing old trucks, are you?”

“No, but I’m sure fixing my own. Well, I’ve just nattered on here, haven’t I? But it frosts me, frosts me good, because American businesses are being screwed. If they don’t want to make the old parts anymore, that’s their damned dumb choice, but foreign companies stealing our new stuff?” He bit his lower lip for a minute, then stood back on the small ladder to recheck the site for the new pump. “If you take care—and I know you do—you’ll get twenty, maybe thirty years out of this pump. Those hoses, you might have to change those earlier. Your old ones lasted eighteen years. A small piece of one hose is missing. Wonder what happened to that? No matter. I’m putting in all new hoses. No point in a new pump and worn-out hoses.”

Harry watched as Mrs. Murphy and Pewter left the barn, heading in the direction of the shed.

Tucker slept on the concrete floor of the shed. That concrete floor had cost Harry’s dad plenty, but it, too, held up. She questioned Dabney some more.

“Yep. Indians are building decent tractors, a lot more horsepower for the money. A heck of a lot better machine than those Russian tractors that hit the market ten years ago, but John Deere is the Rolls-Royce of tractors. Spend the money. Buy the best.”

“I’m with you there. You were telling me about models where the manufacturer no longer makes the parts. I see these magazines for old Ford parts, old Chevys. Looks like a big business. How is that different?”

“In some cases those are parts that a businessman bought from a local dealer. The car dealer no longer had the space to store mirrors, alternators, you name it, for cars from the forties, fifties, et cetera. In other cases, someone with skill can reproduce those parts.”

“Why is that different?”

“Well, for one thing, the original manufacturer has a warranty on the parts. If you buy a 1950 Chevy block, a John Deere block, a Harvester, it still is under warranty. But let’s say I have an aftermarket tractor part made in China. The manufacturer gives you a warranty, right?” He looked at her. “The part is defective. Are you going to go to China to sue? I don’t have to tell you where I bought the part, nor does any repair shop. I’ll save money using cheap aftermarket parts. Like I said, you have a model that’s old enough, you’re okay, plus I would never do that. I only use genuine parts.”

“I had no idea.”

“No one does, really.” He paused. “Someone remodeling an old car loves it. It’s irrational. Someone repairing a tractor needs it. Someone repairing a new car or a new tractor needs it, and usually pronto. A man spends more on his young mistress than on his middle-aged wife.” He glanced down at her. “Maybe that wasn’t the best comparison.”

“I get it. No apology needed. Men are doing it all over the world.”

“One woman is expensive enough. Why two?”

“Dabney, you’re awful.”

“That’s what Doris tells me.” He laughed.

“You couldn’t live without her.”

“That’s the truth. Hand me that ice pick.”

She held it up for him as he gingerly cleaned out a hole. “That’s how they think Bobby Foltz was killed,” she said. “Ice pick or something thin, they think.”

“I wouldn’t have looked.”

“Nothing to see.” Harry shrugged. “Not like Walt Richardson, whom Reverend Jones, Susan, and I found at ReNu.”

“I don’t even want to look at dead animals on the road.”

Three hours later, everything replaced, Dabney ran the tractor, declared it fixed, and Harry handed him a check for $5,319. She said a little prayer of thanks for her sunflowers. This prayer didn’t include Yancy Hampton.

The organic grocer could have used her good wishes, for his middle daughter was very expensively married that Sunday. The reception was at the Randolph Inn, and the caterer misplaced the chicken. After that debacle, Yancy wanted to replace his hysterical wife, who dissolved in a discombobulated fit of anger and raw nerves.

Yancy remembered what his mother used to say about his father: “Divorce, never. Murder, yes.” Gave him a shiver. There’d been enough murders.

C
harleston, South Carolina.” Latigo Bly walked across the inner quad with Reverend Jones.

The two men had come from Reverend Jones’s garage. Neither one wanted to pass close to the cemetery. Instead, they walked at the edge of the large outer quad, reaching the low fieldstone retaining wall. Herb opened the white-painted half-moon gate, stepping into the rich green space. “Well, I’ll be,” Herb said, in response to Latigo’s mention of Charleston.

Satisfied that Reverend Jones had evidenced interest, the tall man continued, “It was in 1732. However, this first American insurance company only offered insurance against fire.”

“I always thought the first person to start an insurance company was Ben Franklin.” Reverend Jones had to take bigger steps to keep up with the long-legged Latigo.

“That was later, in 1752. He founded the Philadelphia Contributionship for the Insuring of Houses from Loss by Fire.” Latigo chuckled. “No fool, Mr. Franklin. He refused to insure bona fide fire hazards, which meant all wooden houses.”

“Guess he still made money.”

“A resourceful, creative man.” Latigo reached the arcade, the stone arches adding to the sense of order and harmony.

“A highly sexed man, too,” Herb said, then quickly added, “Recent history books make much of it.”

“Sex sells,” Latigo said without emotion.

“Maybe you should try it in the insurance business,” Reverend Jones teased him.

“Sure works in yours. Aimee Semple McPherson, for starters.”

“Well, if it worked for religious revivalists, it’s got to work for you. Insurance isn’t a—how shall I put this—a lively business? No singing, dancing—”

Latigo cut in, “Or praising the Lord.”

The two laughed as Reverend Jones opened the outside door to his office. Asleep on the sofa, curled up together, the three cats lifted their heads, dropped them again.

“Please sit down.” Herb motioned to a comfortable club chair. “Can I get you any refreshment?”

“No, thank you. I dropped by to give you the check for your truck.” He reached into his pocket, retrieving an ecru envelope, business logo on the upper left corner.

“I didn’t expect this so fast.” Reverend Jones opened the envelope with his fingernail, pulled out the check. “Latigo, this really is more than that truck is worth.”

“It has scrap value.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Herb replaced the $8,000 check, slipping the envelope into his pants pocket.

“As for a new truck,” said Latigo, “this is a good time to buy. Folks are staying away from the gas guzzlers, so truck sales are slow. You should be able to drive a good bargain.”

“That they are, but the church needs a big truck. As you can imagine, the upkeep on a place this old consumes a considerable chunk of our budget. I’ll buy the truck in my own name, but, of course, we’ll use it for necessities here.” He leaned back in his chair. “Nothing seems to get cheaper, does it?”

“No. Doesn’t the church provide you with a car?”

“They do, and it’s a big help.” He swept his hand toward the triple-sash windows, wide open. “What a beautiful place to work, to
live. Can’t put a price on that, and what preacher is in it for the money?”

An eruption of laughter roared from Latigo. “All of them on TV.”

Reverend Jones smiled at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t consider them ministers. I think of them as hucksters. Revealing my prejudice here, but I am an ordained Lutheran minister, so I have high educational standards. Plus, I don’t think one should use the Good Lord for profit.”

“I do.” Latigo smiled. “I pray daily.”

This time it was Reverend Jones’s turn to laugh uproariously. “I’ll pray for you.” He patted his pocket wherein he had slipped the check. “You’ve got one good deed fresh in St. Peter’s book.” Then he smiled again. “And I’m sure many, many more.”

Latigo surreptitiously checked the Napoleon clock on the mantel. “I’ve got to run. Let me know what you do buy. I certainly hope you’ll continue to insure with Safe and Sound.”

“I will.”

As Latigo left, Lucy Fur raised her head.
“Poppy’s happy.”

“A new truck,”
Cazenovia purred.
“New leather seats to scratch. Heaven.”

Herb dialed ReNu.

“ReNu Auto Works,” Kyle intoned.

“Kyle, this is Reverend Jones. You have my 1994 Chevy half-ton there. I’d like to come down tomorrow and clean it out thoroughly. I didn’t do that when it was towed. Just too upset about it. Will that be okay?”

A short pause, then Kyle replied, “Sure. I’ll tell the boys to leave it alone.”

“What would they do with it?”

“Strip it. There will be good parts in it even though it’s old. The boss sells the older stuff to specialty houses.”

“Specialty?”

“Places that work on old vehicles, trucks. Plus there are warehouses for old parts.”

“I see.”

“And then the boss sells the truck for scrap. Scrap metal’s up right now, so he’s happy.”

“Well, you don’t stay in business if you don’t find ways to make the money, beat the tax man.”

“Right.”

As Reverend Jones hung up, he thought to himself that the few times he’d seen or spoken to Kyle, no sliver of enthusiasm ever disturbed the young man. The other thing was, Kyle never said good things about ReNu. He didn’t say bad things, either.

He dialed again. “Harry.”

“Rev.”

“Will you go down to ReNu with me tomorrow?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I need to clean out the old truck before they trash it. I was so mad when the truck went out on me, I didn’t think to take all my stuff. I don’t even know what I left in there.”

“Glad to help.”

“I don’t want to go there alone, truth be told.”

“I understand. I really do.”

“Okay, then. Mmm, ten too early?”

“No. I’ll pick you up.”