Deadly Grace. Taylor Smith

gonna set you back another ten or twelve—say, twenty with the labor, but we’ll wait on that till it gets here.”

      “Geez, Norbert, you’re killin’ me!”

      As reluctantly as if it were a layer of his own skin, the geezer peeled a bill from a fat wad in the wallet. He slapped the bill down on the counter, and Cruz saw Ben Franklin’s features on its worn, wrinkled face. Like Cruz’s own father, Henry here obviously distrusted banks, preferring to guard his money himself.

      “I told you not to take that old beater off-road, didn’t I?” the garage owner said as he palmed the bill and rang up the sale on an ancient cash register. “You’re lucky you didn’t rip off the whole underside.” The register pealed and the cash drawer popped open.

      Henry waved a dismissive hand. “She’s got plenty of life in her yet.”

      The mechanic lifted the pile of twenties and slid the hundred underneath, then pulled a twenty-dollar bill off the top of the pile. “Sure she does, Henry,” he said, grinning as he slammed the drawer shut and handed over the change. “You just keep tellin’ yourself that. It’s good for business.”