Post by FireAngel on Dec 17, 2008 0:00:51 GMT -5
“What does it need, D?”
She wasn’t looking at the short, wiry black man standing next to her with the tell-tale greased up rag dangling from the back pocket of the dirty gray coveralls open all the way to his waist, the wife-beater underneath once white but now a dingy, greasy gray color. Instead the green eyes were trained on the orange ’77 Malibu with the hood popped up and half the engine dismantled on the floor of the garage around it.
“For starters, a catalytic converter. Struts. New U-bolts, engine mounts, drive train…” He was looking at the heap with the bald tires in something close to disgust. One of the gear-heads in her crew, D was used to Speed showing up with heaps of junk, but this pile of crap really took the cake, and he told her as much. “It’s a piece of shit, Speed. What the fuck do you want this junked up pile of rusty bolts for? I’ve seen 50 year old hooker pussy that looked less used up.”
That drew her attention, the green eyes slanting to the mechanic and a smirk curling the fat ruby lips. “I bet you have, too.” He probably would have been offended, but knew better by now. She looked back to the car that had been won in an ally-race. It was riddled with dents and spots of rust, the orange faded to a creamy sort of orange shade, abused by the sun and the rain. It wouldn’t shine like her beast of a GTO did, but it would be added to her collection of cars for the races. “But I like it, D. So you start fixing it, and I’ll worry about the parts.” And he nodded, knowing she would. It was what she did.
“Do we have anything we can scrap for it?” First things first, spare parts were kept in the massive warehouse garage that was filled with some of her car’s, from the shining black GTO to the box van converted to the Wreaking Machine to several of her well-equipped street racers as well as the car’s of the rest of her crew. A second floor loft had a beat up couch and table that three guys lounged on, drinking beers and smoking while talking about who banged who best. A few guys tinkered in cars, sparks flew from another corner where a pair of machine guns were bolted to the doors of another car – all of it was inside the warehouse-turned garage that was Speed’s garage, and one of the biggest, most well-protected, coveted warehouses in the city to be in if you were a gear-head. It was rivaled by only one other Street Organizer’s place.
“I can probably strip that old Olds in the back, but that converter is going to be another matter. They aren’t so easy to find, Speed.”
She didn’t say anything to him. Instead, her mind was turning. They might not be easy to find, but the Street Organizer knew exactly who had one, if he hadn’t gotten rid of it by now. Lance had won a race a few week’s ago and amid the parts had been a catalytic converter that would fit the Malibu. Speed could have tried to give him a call – there were any number of cell phones in that garage that she could have picked up and used at any time – but there were no guarantees that the Boss Man would actually answer. No, there was a much easier, and direct, way to ensure she spoke to him directly.
Without a word, heavy black combat boots stalked away from the Malibu and the mechanic, heading to the GTO parked just within one of the massive open bay doors. When the slender figure started into motion, eyes automatically looked up, and the three on the couch in the loft nudged one another, took final swigs of their beers, then got up, obviously to follow as the blond opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat of the black beast. The engine roared to life with a full-throated rumble that echoed through the enclosed garage, momentarily deafening the loud music blaring from speakers and silencing all conversation. Noticing the trio scrambling down the metal stairs from the loft, she leaned over to the open window, letting off the gas to lower the vibrating roar of the powerful muscle car, and shouted a loud, authoritative ”Stay here!”[/I] out of the window before gunning the beast and sending it flying out of the garage, tires laying down twin black streaks of rubber to match the hundreds already there.
Oh sure, she could roll up with her whole crew onto his turf. But that would defeat the point of her visit, instead setting the other Street Organizer on edge, which wouldn’t get her a catalytic converter for the Malibu. Showing up alone, however, in that trademarked black GTO that shimmered like a black panther prowling the streets in the evening twilight, would see to it that any members of the Boss Man’s crew out running the streets of his turf would get her straight to Lance directly. While he wasn’t the <I>only</I> source for the necessary part, he would certainly be the fastest, and most direct, source.
Red lights rolled by as the GTO rumbled through the city, staying off the ruined highways and on the dirty, crowded streets, littered with both people and refuse, stray animals and homeless walking alongside the weary and downtrodden working stiff. Occasionally, a flicker of life would show when the powerful car throbbed the very asphalt under their feet, but for the most part they trudged along in their lives oblivious to her passing, and certainly oblivious to the invisible line that the GTO crossed and sent the Street Organizer directly into her competing racer and fellow Organizer’s home territory.
She wasn’t looking at the short, wiry black man standing next to her with the tell-tale greased up rag dangling from the back pocket of the dirty gray coveralls open all the way to his waist, the wife-beater underneath once white but now a dingy, greasy gray color. Instead the green eyes were trained on the orange ’77 Malibu with the hood popped up and half the engine dismantled on the floor of the garage around it.
“For starters, a catalytic converter. Struts. New U-bolts, engine mounts, drive train…” He was looking at the heap with the bald tires in something close to disgust. One of the gear-heads in her crew, D was used to Speed showing up with heaps of junk, but this pile of crap really took the cake, and he told her as much. “It’s a piece of shit, Speed. What the fuck do you want this junked up pile of rusty bolts for? I’ve seen 50 year old hooker pussy that looked less used up.”
That drew her attention, the green eyes slanting to the mechanic and a smirk curling the fat ruby lips. “I bet you have, too.” He probably would have been offended, but knew better by now. She looked back to the car that had been won in an ally-race. It was riddled with dents and spots of rust, the orange faded to a creamy sort of orange shade, abused by the sun and the rain. It wouldn’t shine like her beast of a GTO did, but it would be added to her collection of cars for the races. “But I like it, D. So you start fixing it, and I’ll worry about the parts.” And he nodded, knowing she would. It was what she did.
“Do we have anything we can scrap for it?” First things first, spare parts were kept in the massive warehouse garage that was filled with some of her car’s, from the shining black GTO to the box van converted to the Wreaking Machine to several of her well-equipped street racers as well as the car’s of the rest of her crew. A second floor loft had a beat up couch and table that three guys lounged on, drinking beers and smoking while talking about who banged who best. A few guys tinkered in cars, sparks flew from another corner where a pair of machine guns were bolted to the doors of another car – all of it was inside the warehouse-turned garage that was Speed’s garage, and one of the biggest, most well-protected, coveted warehouses in the city to be in if you were a gear-head. It was rivaled by only one other Street Organizer’s place.
“I can probably strip that old Olds in the back, but that converter is going to be another matter. They aren’t so easy to find, Speed.”
She didn’t say anything to him. Instead, her mind was turning. They might not be easy to find, but the Street Organizer knew exactly who had one, if he hadn’t gotten rid of it by now. Lance had won a race a few week’s ago and amid the parts had been a catalytic converter that would fit the Malibu. Speed could have tried to give him a call – there were any number of cell phones in that garage that she could have picked up and used at any time – but there were no guarantees that the Boss Man would actually answer. No, there was a much easier, and direct, way to ensure she spoke to him directly.
Without a word, heavy black combat boots stalked away from the Malibu and the mechanic, heading to the GTO parked just within one of the massive open bay doors. When the slender figure started into motion, eyes automatically looked up, and the three on the couch in the loft nudged one another, took final swigs of their beers, then got up, obviously to follow as the blond opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat of the black beast. The engine roared to life with a full-throated rumble that echoed through the enclosed garage, momentarily deafening the loud music blaring from speakers and silencing all conversation. Noticing the trio scrambling down the metal stairs from the loft, she leaned over to the open window, letting off the gas to lower the vibrating roar of the powerful muscle car, and shouted a loud, authoritative ”Stay here!”[/I] out of the window before gunning the beast and sending it flying out of the garage, tires laying down twin black streaks of rubber to match the hundreds already there.
Oh sure, she could roll up with her whole crew onto his turf. But that would defeat the point of her visit, instead setting the other Street Organizer on edge, which wouldn’t get her a catalytic converter for the Malibu. Showing up alone, however, in that trademarked black GTO that shimmered like a black panther prowling the streets in the evening twilight, would see to it that any members of the Boss Man’s crew out running the streets of his turf would get her straight to Lance directly. While he wasn’t the <I>only</I> source for the necessary part, he would certainly be the fastest, and most direct, source.
Red lights rolled by as the GTO rumbled through the city, staying off the ruined highways and on the dirty, crowded streets, littered with both people and refuse, stray animals and homeless walking alongside the weary and downtrodden working stiff. Occasionally, a flicker of life would show when the powerful car throbbed the very asphalt under their feet, but for the most part they trudged along in their lives oblivious to her passing, and certainly oblivious to the invisible line that the GTO crossed and sent the Street Organizer directly into her competing racer and fellow Organizer’s home territory.