And another partial week bites the dust. Am I the only who thinks time is flying past? I mean, seriously. Forget sands through the hour glass, these days of our lives is like a hyperspace jump on the Enterprise. As it’s Wednesday again, that means another #1lineWed word prompt. This week it’s **GARAGE**. And while I hadn’t planned on a garage, necessarily, one materialized and now I have to figure out where to put this scene back toward the beginning of the book because this is the first time that Devlin O’Reilly lays eyes on the man who will…well, that’s a spoiler so nope. Anway, I hope you enjoy this little snippet.
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Devlin bent over the fender of the 1969 Chevy Chevelle SS396. The classic car, with its original red paint and wide black racing stripes on the hood and trunk, rumbled like a big cat as Aiden pressed the gas pedal. The two of them had been working on this car for six months, restoring the interior and rebuilding the original engine. By some miracle, the exterior had remained pristine.
Aidan cut the engine and popped out of the driver’s seat grinning like a loon. “Man, but she’s sweet, Dev.” The kid all but glowed. He’d taken over his dad’s garage the previous year when the senior Rafferty had a major hard attack. Many of the Borus had grown up around Rafferty’s. Unlike many businesses Brian had his hands in, Rafferty’s was legit. Mostly. There’d been the rare emergency chop of a stolen vehicle in the middle of the night through the years.
Looking up at the sound of sirens, Dev gazed out the open roll-up door on the bay. No one ignored a siren. Ever. As three squad cars squealed to stop in the driveway, he motioned for Aidan to stay put. He wiped the grease off his hands using the red shop rag that had been stuffed in his rear pocket as he strolled out to meet the cops.
Aidan moved to the rear of the Chevelle and leaned against it, alert and watching, his cell phone to his ear. Good man, Dev thought, putting Ronan and the rest on alert. He cocked his head to the side and watched one of the cops swagger toward him. The man kept his hand on the butt of his service pistol. Hiding his smirk, Dev simply watched and waited.
“Check all the vins,” the cocky cop ordered the others.
Dev straightened to his full height, which was at least a head above the cop, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll be looking at your search warrant before that happens.”
“Don’t need no warrant,” the cop sneered.
“You don’t have probable cause so I’m thinkin’ ya do.”
“Everybody knows this place belongs to Brian O’Hara and the man’s a crook. That’s enough probably cause for me.”
The cop stopped in front of him and did his best to stare him down. Devlin wanted to laugh but didn’t. He made a note of the tool’s name. T. Gallagher. He’d remember it. When he didn’t back down, the cop waved his men forward. They all hesitated. He recognized one, an older cop who’d been on the South Boston beat for years. When the veteran officer caught his eye, the man rolled his heavenward and gave a negligent shake of his head. Dev inclined his chin just enough to acknowledge the message.
A silver Range Rover Velar pulled in behind the squad cars. The man who got out was impeccably dressed in a bespoke suit and carried the air of someone who wouldn’t be messed with. Devlin smiled. The cavalry had arrived in the form of Declan Donshue, attorney at law.
“You look a little busy, Dev,” Declan called over. “Will you and Aidan have time to change the oil in my baby?” Deck patted the hood of the sleek SUV.
“You’re interfering with police business,” Gallagher snarled over his shoulder.
Declan smiled. “I hardly think so. You’d actually have to be performing your duty for me to interfere.”
The cop whirled, his right hand fisting his pistol butt and his left raised in a fist. “You’re under arrest!”
“Are you sure you want to do that, Sergeant Gallagher?” The passenger door had opened and a distinguished-looking man stepped out.
“Judge Francone? What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing, Sergeant.”
“We got a tip about some stolen cars.”
The judge made a dismissive noise then smiled as Aidan stepped out into the sunlight. “Aidan, my boy!” Francone called with obvious relish. “How’s your father doing?”
Aidan laughed. “He’s drivin’ Ma nuts. We gonna have to get him a clunker so he can tinker around at home to keep him out of her hair.”
Gallagher realized he’d lost this round and turned back to Dev, glowering. “Give the old man and his rabid pup a message. Danny Boy’s watching.” With that vague threat, Gallagher whistled for his men.
They climbed into their cars and took off, leaving Dev a tad disappointed. Then he smiled. Danny Boy and his pet cop weren’t the only ones who were watching.
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There you have it. And yes, the Chevelle will make an appearance later. Well, actually, sooner. Maybe. Anyway, Iffy informs me the Chevelle is symbolic so it’s good to know that my subconscious storyteller is working on at least a couple of cylinders. Too bad there isn’t a garage for writers where we can take our brains, muses, and/or creativity in for a tune-up! 😉 Writers, feel free to share words from the band in your garage. Readers, what classic car would you like to have?
Australian Aboriginals, like Native Americans, have a special place for dreams. Down under, it’s called the Dreaming Time. Many native tribes here in the US refer to it as a vision quest. If writers are smart, will follow their examples. Creativity and dreams walk hand iin hand. I know that if my sleep is messed up and I don’t compensate by setting aside some dreaming time, then the words get stuck in my head, a jumbled mess that makes no sense. The Universe recognizes this too.
Silver James 