Chapter 14 - Winter Wedding #13


    MICHAEL


    “Where do you want this, Sally?” I hover in the door, a cardboard crate in my arms.


    She peers over the top, poking at the contents, muttering to herself. “Flour… Cooking brandy… Dried


    fruit… Thanks, Michael. Just put it on the counter over there. Want a coffee while you’re passing


    through?”


    “I will, yes. Everything under control?”


    She gives me a brisk smile. “No problems at all. We’re fully staffed for the holiday period and my


    daughter’s on standby to help out if anyonees down with that flu that’s going around.”


    “Great. Is there…?”


    The double serving doors bang open and Klempner strides in. “Ah, Michael. They told me I’d find you


    here. A favour to ask. I wonder if I could borrow that truck of yours?”


    Sally pushes a mug into my hand, cocks a brow at Klempner, who nods. “Please, yes.”


    I take a swig of the coffee. “Sure.” Fishing keys from my pocket, I toss them to him. “It’s in the barn.


    What''s it for?”


    His eyes flick to Sally, then back again. She tuts and hands him a mug.


    “Just an idea.” He gulps, then blows over the mug before gulping again.


    “You need help with something? If it’s big enough to need the truck, another pair of hands could be


    useful.”


    He eyes me, sucking in his cheeks…


    Weighed… Measured…


    “Perhaps you could. Do you have any ns for the afternoon?”


    … and found adequate…


    “Nothing I can''t put off. Are we going for a ride?”


    “If you''re volunteering, yes.”


    “Should I get changed?”


    He looks me up and down again. “No,e as you are.”


    “In my work clothes and boots? You''re wearing a suit.”


    Klempner’s face is straight, but a wolf smile prowls behind his eyes. “I don''t intend to get my hands


    dirty.”


    “But I will?”


    He tosses back thest of the coffee, then hands back the mug. “Thank you. Much appreciated,


    Mrs…?”


    “Sally.”


    “Thank you, Sally.”


    *****


    Strolling through reception side-by-side with Klempner, I call across. “I’m out for the rest of the day,


    Pauline. If anyone’s asking for me, take a message .”


    “Sure thing, Michael.”


    Klempner pauses by a mirror, checks himself over. Taking ab from his jacket, he swipes it through


    his hair and beard a couple of times, reces it, then straightens his jacket. The performance looks to


    have nothing to do with vanity.


    And now that I think about it, the creases in his trousers would slice bread, his shirt and tie are fresh-


    pressed and the jacket has been brushed down.


    I consider my own dress, chosen for a morning of lugging crates and cartons from truck to storeroom.


    “You’re sure I’m dressed okay?”


    “Jeans, boots and a pullover are perfect.”


    “So, where are we going? What do you want me to do?”


    “Stay close and… um… loom.”


    “Loom? You’re better at looming than me. What d’you need me for?”


    “Think of it as an opportunity to practice your technique.” He pauses, looking me up and down, then


    shakes his head slightly. “It would help if you didn''t look so much like an ad for fresh-mint mouthwash.”


    *****


    I drive. Next to me, in the passenger seat, Klempner checks a mapping app. Pointing ahead, “Take that


    next left, then park up wherever you can.”


    Easing the truck around the corner, I pull in. We’re in the parking lot of some industrialplex. It’s not


    one I know, but it seems a popr venue. People mill and push. Vans serve fries, burgers and dogs,


    hot drinks and cans. An oily smell and a thrumming in the air says that a generator is running


    somewhere close by.


    “Alright, what are we here for?”


    “That way.” He aims a finger toward the heart of the throng. As we make our way through, wee to


    a series of small industrial units, and a whole mess of stalls, stands and pitches.


    “A garage sale?”


    “Yup.”


    And the penny drops. “Ryan’s stolen equipment?”


    He clucks. “Perhaps. There’s a good chance.” He pats down pockets over jacket and pants, then


    produces a folded sheet of paper. “Stolen goods list. Come on, let’s take a look.”


    “If we find the stuff, how do we know it’s the right stuff?”


    “I took down the serial numbers too. As it turns out, Ryan keeps good records.” He scowls at me.


    “You’re supposed to be the paid muscle. Can you try to look a bit less... corn-fed... It’s bad for my


    Please check at N/?vel(D)rama.Org.


    reputation.”


    “Isn''t your reputation that you''re dead?”


    He nts me a look, sniffs then scratches his nose. “Let''s see how that works out.”


    We make our way along the row. I stroll, trying to look casual. Klempner walks as though he’s about to


    charge rent on the lot.


    “I don''t know why you feel the need to show off paid muscle. It''s not as though you can''t handle


    yourself.”


    He replies in lordly fashion. “It''s part of the costume, Michael. To be taken seriously, one must be


    supported by a retinue of thugs.”


    While I ponder why I volunteered to be part of Larry Klempner’s retinue, or for that matter, part of his


    costume, we make our way through the flea market. The units are mainly stacked with the big stuff,


    house clearances by the looks of things. Stalls and tables are set out,id with second-hand jewellery,


    picture frames, knick-knacks and camping gear. Several stands… well-frequented… sell second-hand


    kids clothes and toys. Others disy fishing rods, sports gear, antiquatedputers, printers and


    TVs…


    “There…” Klempner aims a finger. “That looks promising.” He throws a nce at me. “You happy about


    following my lead?”


    “It’s your show. Just give me the cue.”


    “Good. For now, we’re just a couple of punters, checking out the stuff.”


    The pitch he’s interested in takes up a corner of the parking lot, the goodsid out in rough order on the


    ground. Hammers, wrenches and saws; shovels, picks, bolsters and crowbars, lie side by side on a


    tarp to the fore of the disy. Trestle tables, sturdy, but old and well knocked about, disy electric


    drills, chainsaws, sanders and routers, nail guns and caulk guns.


    Klempner wanders in, picking his way through to the rear where therger kit is arrayed: jackhammers,


    airpressors and generators; a concrete mixer, apactor, a small excavator. Propped against


    the wall:dders, builders nks and scaffold-board. Even a scaffold tower.


    I amble behind, thumbs hooked into my pockets.


    I’m beginning to enjoy myself.


    Klempner shes a nce toward the individual running the stand - currently upied arguing the


    price of a battered toolbox - then consults his list, cupped in a palm.


    Strolling to the concrete mixer, tugging up his trousers at the knee, he squats down, peering close.


    After only a second or two, he stands again. His voice low. “Matching serial number.”


    Hands in his pockets, scuffing at the ground, he waits while the pitch-holder has finished his dicker over


    the toolbox.


    The customer strolls off, a couple of notes are shoved into a leather bum-bag, and the owner pivots to


    Klempner. “Ah… Is it the mixer you’re interested in, Sor? That’s a fine piece of equipment, so it is. A


    good price too.” He jerks a thumb at me. “Would ya want yabourer ta test it out?”


    Klempner’s mouth twitches and he cocks a brow to me. “Why not?”


    “Fine,” I mutter. “Got a power cable?”


    Two minutester, I plug into an extension lead and hit the On switch. The motor hums and the barrel


    say. “Motor sounds okay. Seems fine to me.”


    “Good.” Klempner clicks his tongue. “How much are you asking for it?”


    “I couldn’t take less than three hundred.”


    Brows rise. “I could buy a new one at that price.”


    “We’ll say two hundred then, shall we? Shake on it?”


    A grubby hand thrusts forward. Klempner regards the hand, making no move to take it. It wavers, then


    withdraws.


    Klempner produces a second list from a jacket pocket; hand-written, crumpled. “I have a list of


    equipment I’m looking for.” He briefly meets my eyes as he hands it to… “What do I call you by the


    way?”


    Eyes lighting up, “McGuire, Sor. I’m Conner McGuire.” He touches his forehead in a sort-of salute. “…


    But you can call me Conner.”


    “Thank you, Mr McGuire. Now, if you could go over that list for me and let me know what you have that


    might fit the bill? We can discuss the price when I see what you can offer me.”


    “Certainly, Sor…” McGuire briefly inspects the list then, “I can help you with most of this. Some of the


    stuff’s still in the van. I’ll get it brought across for you.” He waves a hand across the parking lot to where


    a lounging youth jerks to attention. “Oy, Jimmy, Open up, will ya.”


    Klempner follows the hand. “Which van is it? I’ll take a look myself, save you the effort.”


    McGuire beams. “Pleasure, Sor. This way.” He marches across the lot to a parked van. Klempner


    strolls behind, jerking his chin at me to follow.


    Paint chipped and with doubtful tyres, I don’t think I’d want to trust my life to this vehicle. Jimmy unlocks


    the chained and padlocked roller door. As it rumbles open, Klempner, grabbing the side handle, hauls


    himself up inside.


    He stoops over an airpressor, briefly lighting the rear with the torch beam from his phone. He


    snaps a photo. A table-saw gets a simr inspection. Another photo. And another. And another.