Tevun-Krus #22 - Best of 2015

(DieselPunk) Transmission - @Holly_Gonzalez

Hugh Bailey stomped into Neely Flescher's office at five p.m. Winter had arrived a month early, leaving three inches of white. Rings powdered the welcome rug around his thick-soled boots. The steam radiator in the corner clanked and whistled with precious heat, though a chill prevailed.

"You sent for me, sir?"

"Good evening, Mr. Bailey. Won't you have a seat?" Neely pointed to the rickety guest chair, then sank into the plush leather one behind his desk. "We've got a last-minute run for a priority client, and you're the only man qualified."

"Where's the drop this time?"

"Clearwater Heights. For a Mr. Bryce. He's paying well."

A full night's ride in these conditions. Hugh leaned back, and laced his fingers behind his neck. "How much?"

"Five grand. But it must arrive intact by sunrise."

"That's a lot of dough. This Bryce fellow must be desperate."

Neely's grin was as slick as his hair. He lit a cigarette with panache. "Confidentiality and dependability, whether rain, snow, or shine. It's what Flescher Courier Services prides itself upon."

"I know it well."

What a shame the discretion didn't extend to Neely's regard for his employees. Hugh had once believed his boss was fair. Everything changed two weeks ago, after what happened to Edie.

"Are you in?" Neely asked, exhaling a plume of rose-perfumed smoke.

Hugh held his breath against the stench. "I'll take it."

A tense handshake sealed the contract.

Hugh's previous plan was to get out of Elmsvale come spring. Now, he hesitated to leave this pathetic town. Times were tough all over the country, ever since the market crash of '29. He'd be lucky to find steady employment elsewhere. The true reason, however, was he dreaded leaving Edie alone.

Time wasn't a commodity he could spare. He hurried out the door, without a backward glance.

His RL 45 waited by the gate. Not much to look at, primered and dented here and there, but Rusty was reliable, A three-speed transmission, the latest flathead twin engine, a beast hewn of steel and adoration. Much of his recent pay had gone to winterizing. The new studded tires and customized oil system would serve well tonight.

He'd grown up riding and repairing motorcycles with his father, earning enough to purchase his first at age thirteen. Endurance racing was his favorite pastime when he wasn't carrying correspondence.

He set Rusty to neutral, and wheeled her to maintenance. Milo, the mechanic, tended to the required inspections, while Hugh headed to the dispatch center.

The door creaked shut behind him. Light spilled from the overhead lamp, slanting in a pale column.

Miss Edie Waters kept dispatch tidy and warm, unlike Neely's smoke-drenched cave. She sat at the edge of her reception desk, swinging one slender ankle over the other while she chatted on the phone. A pencil skirt flattered her hips, mother-of-pearl buttons accenting the slit at the side. She twisted her fingers around the cord.

"I assure you we'll handle the job with utmost care. That's how Flescher does business, sir. Of course. We'll be in touch." After she hung up, she stood to meet Hugh.

He removed his cap, and straightened his posture. "Good evening, Miss Waters. I'm ready for my assignment."

Her dark blue eyes surveyed him in one downward glance. "You've come to my rescue again, Hugh. I thought we'd never get this delivery out. We don't want to disappoint a client like Mr. Bryce."