Gypsy Sins by John Lawrence Reynolds

again.”
    McGuire turned the key of Cora’s Saab, its starter motor powered by jumper cables attached to the battery of an ancient Dodge truck with “Compton Auto Service” painted on the door in fading white script.
    â€œOkay, forget it.” The mechanic emerged from under the Saab’s hood, wiping his hands on a greasy towel. “You got some serious problems here. Probably the fuel pump. She’s not getting any gas.”
    He leaned on the passenger door and spoke through the open window at McGuire, an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “When’s the last time this thing was running?”
    McGuire said he had no idea.
    â€œI bet she’s been a year anyway,” the mechanic said, patting the pockets of his coveralls, searching for matches. “Battery probably won’t hold a charge either. You want me to order a new fuel pump?” A white oval enclosing the name Bert was stitched to the coveralls over the man’s heart.
    McGuire pulled the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car. Through the open door, the rays of the morning sun cleaved the interior of the garage, shining out of another achingly blue sky. “Might as well,” he replied. “The car’s not much good without it.”
    â€œHow many miles has she got?” Bert had found his matches. He was small and wiry with tired, heavily lidded eyes and a day’s growth of graying beard.
    â€œLess than forty thousand.”
    â€œShe’s worth fixin’ then.”
    The two men walked out of the garage to the side garden where the mechanic lit his cigarette, drew an apparently exhilarating deep breath and exhaled, looking up at the sky with apparent approval. “So, you want me to order a battery for her?”
    McGuire nodded. “Once it’s running, I plan to sell it.”
    â€œYeah?” Bert looked back at the car with greater appreciation. “Let me know. I might have a buyer for it. What’re you askin’?”
    â€œWhatever the fair value is.”
    â€œTake a day or two for the pump to come in. From Boston.” Boston, his tone suggested, was on the far side of the universe.
    â€œI’ll be here.” Bert turned to climb into his truck. “Any idea where I can rent a car?” McGuire asked.
    â€œSure. I got loaners at the shop. Rent you one if you don’t mind somethin’ with a few dents and scrapes. What d’you need?”
    â€œAnything that runs and I can charge to a credit card. How about a ride downtown?”
    Parker Leedale’s office was on the second floor of a daffodil-yellow frame building, above a gift shop called Calico & Ginger. A gilt-painted carved wooden sign, the only form of street advertising apparently permitted in Compton, was suspended from a black wrought-iron bracket over a weathered oak door on the side of the building. Hirons & Leedale, Attorneys-at-Law, the sign proclaimed.
    The carpeted steps creaked beneath McGuire’s weight as he climbed the stairs to a surprisingly modern and airy reception room illuminated by two large skylights. The floors were wide-plank pine buffed by years of footsteps and paste wax, and the walls were covered in a hunter green fabric with a scattered pattern of wild flowers in yellow, white and pink.
    â€œGood morning!”
    The voice, high and happy like wind chimes, startled McGuire and he turned to see a small woman in her late twenties wearing a black sweater and tweed skirt enter the reception area from a supply room, a stack of file folders in her hand. She was barely five feet tall, McGuire estimated, with the near-excess of energy and joy that many small, attractive women display. Her eyes were large and deep brown, her hair thick and black, shaped in soft waves to frame her face.
    â€œIsn’t this another perfect day we’re having?” she smiled as she crossed the room to the scarred pine harvest table that served as a reception