“London,” says Eli. “I just graduated from the University ofMinnesota with a degree in English lit. I’m ready to write my first novel. A retelling ofOliver Twistin modern times. I want the book to be faithfully accurate to today’s London the way Dickens’s was to the London of his time.”
“I played a lot of matches in London.”
“Oh, wait. Are you the soccer player?”
“The one and only.”
“I’ve heard about you. Do you mind if we grab a drink sometime so I can pick your brain about the move?”
“Happy to,” says Clay.
“I figure it’ll take me a year to save up enough money. And that’s living bare bones. I had to put myself through college by working at a scrapyard in the cities, but I couldn’t save a dime. I signed up for one year of servitude, then I’m out of here. Can. Not. Wait.”
“I know the feeling. Hey, Eli, I do have a question for you. Does anyone come in here trying to sell catalytic converters? You know, more than one?”
Bobby Hensel emerges from a door behind the counter. He wears grease-stained coveralls complete with an embroidered patch on his right pec that readsROBERT. He has a few days’ growth on his face, salt-and-pepper stubble, and dull, brown, bloodshot eyes.
He takes one look at Clay and says, “Fuckin’ A. I heard you were back in town.”
“How are you, Bobby?” says Clay. “Been a while.”
Bobby points to his name patch. “It’s Robert now. Bobby was a child.”
Clay hates when people start going by their full given nameafter decades of going by the less-formal version. John becomes Jonathan. Becky becomes Rebecca. Gus becomes August. Lizzy becomes Elizabeth. It’s a last-ditch effort at respectability, thinks Clay. One that requires no work or merit. He sure as hell isn’t going to insist people call him Clayton.
“Nice to see you again, Robert.”
“He wants to know if we buy catalytic converters,” says Eli.
“You trying to unload some?” says Robert, FKA Bobby. He may have changed his name, but he has the same mean smile. “You finally hit on hard times, Clay?”
Clay puts a pleasant smile on his face. He can think of a few satisfying comebacks to Robert’s question but doesn’t want to play that game, especially in front of Eli, whom Clay likes and feels sorry for. Instead he just says, “My uncle Teddy is missing.”
“Yeah,” says Robert. “Heard about that.”
“Teddy’s had his troubles in the past, and I’m wondering if maybe he’s out there stealing catalytic converters to raise a little cash. This is the closest scrapyard to Riverwood, so I thought I’d stop in and ask if Teddy’s been in here.”
“Nope,” says Robert. “Besides, I won’t touch a catalytic converter anymore. They’re all stolen. It would have to be stamped with a vehicle identification number and the person bringing it in would have to show me a pink slip with that same number on it for me to even consider taking it. I run a respectable business here, Clay. I don’t need any trouble with the law.”
“Of course not,” says Clay. “Neither of you have happened to see Teddy around, have you?”
“I’m sorry,” says Eli. “I don’t know him.”
“Midsixties,” says Clay. “Long hair. Kind of looks like Neil Young.”
“Oh, that guy,” says Eli. “Yeah. No. Haven’t seen him for a while, and never up here.”
“Same,” says Robert. “Sorry. Wish we could be of some help.”
“I appreciate your time,” says Clay. “Nice meeting you, Eli. And good to see you again, Robert.”
Robert laughs. “Is it?”
“We were kids, Robert. We were just kids.”
CHAPTER 12
“Grandpa said he’s going to buy me a shotgun when I turn fifteen,” says Braedon.
