Bite the Bullet - Saints Row

6: Drive It Like You Stole It

I leaned against a set of red tool boxes stacked so high the top was level with my head, puffing on a cigarette with folded arms and hogging the rotary fan. I was used to the lingering chemical smell—some combination of car paint, gasoline, and oil, punctuated by a wisp of grape-flavored cigar smoke. Compressors, benches, and metal cabinets lined the walls, adorned in posters of hot rods and expired pin-up calendars he kept for the pictures. It wouldn't be Sam's Auto-Body Shop without some cheese.

The man himself brushed off his olive coveralls and used his splattered boot to scoot the floor creeper from his path. He was tall, lean, and pushing 40, but still had the energy of a highschool-grad, his dark, stringy arms, full head of curls, and purple bandanna coated in a fine dusting of body plaster. All of his hard work cured in the next bay over, freshly-primed pieces of bodywork hanging from the ceiling on repurposed clothes hangers, looking better than the assembly line. He was the closest thing to a friend Julius and I had in Stilwater— whatever that meant.

"Rollbar's in, steel valve stems, flywheel shield...Got a guy bringin' the slicks and window nets over. All's left's the front seat, which I'm fixin' to install now." He lifted his cigar to his lips, holding it there. "I'll say it'll handle like a dream at the track."

"Thanks, man." I replied. "Gimme' an estimate."

"Ah—nah, you bought the parts. Consider the rest thanks." He reassured me with one of his laidback smiles, but his exasperation was there, between the lines. "...For clearin' those assholes out. Which reminds me, I been meanin' to ask—it true that new kid in your crew ran a guy over?"

"My crew." I repeated, stirring a raw chuckle from my chest. "Where'd ya' hear that?"

"Word gets out. Got a pair on him."

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. "...What've ya' heard?"

"That a certain skinny white boy and some indito kid in a muscle car took out five guys in one swing." I frowned— even better. "It didn't used to be like this, y'know? My pops ran this place long before those Carnales turned up, and managed to keep his distance. Now, them VK charge in here like that? Shit." Disdain moved into his voice. "If I got robbed, I'd be royally fucked. Some of these tools are older than me. I'd go outta' business."

"We'd never let that happen." I shook my head, letting my hand drop. "Which is why I gotta' pay for my shit."

"C'mon, most the Saints drive tin cans. Look—buy me a beer once ya' win." He proposed. "Tell everybody that 'oohs' and 'ahhs' who it was that fixed 'er up, and I'll call it even."

"...'Kay, but—what for?"

"There's a lot of mechanics in Little Shanghai known around town—real hotshots, rollin' in cash, all that fancy shit. Last I heard, the guy out in Encanto, uh— Mendoza, got stuffed in a wheelchair over choppin' cars, so, he's outta' the game. Ain't nobody known from the Row. With muscle cars attached to me, plus that stunt yesterday?" He smiled, "I guess we're doin' the hick shit."

"...A'ight," I relented, with my own supply of doubt. "If that's what ya' want, course it's a deal."

I was broke now, anyway.

"Have to ask, what made you wanna' do all this? I thought this was just a show-car situation when I hooked ya' up with it."

"I lost my fuckin' marbles, I guess." I muttered, more to myself, before I heard the hemi down the road. "...That's the New Guy runnin' with me." Apparently.

"I got some work for him, if ya' think he's up to it."

"Uh...that's his deal. But—he's still green, so, I'd appreciate keepin' it zipped about the whole... last night, thing. And, uh—he's not a real big talker. It's nothin' personal, I don't think, he's just uh... like that. Kinda' shy, y'know?"