sounded like that. This blast came from a gleaming new Pierce-Arrow touring car that inched down Main Street alongside him.
“Hey there, Stringbean,” shouted the man behind the wheel.
Peter squinted into the glare of the late-day sun. No one had called him Stringbean since the orphanage. Even there, only one person used the nickname.
“Vince?” The driver sounded like Peter’s old friend, but this man had slicked-back hair and a fancy suit. Gold cuff links flashed in the sun. “Vince Galbini?”
“You got it, kid. I said I’d look ya up, and here I am.”
Peter couldn’t get over it. “How’d you find me? Mariah said Mr. Isaacs closed the orphanage.”
“I got my contacts in the old neighborhood. They told me you were sent here.”
That made sense. Mariah had gone back to the orphanage after all the orphans on the train were placed in families. She’d probably told everyone working there that he’d found a home with the Simmons family. From there, the news would have spread through the neighborhood.
“You kept your promise,” Peter said in astonishment. “I can’t believe it. You said you’d find me again, and you did.” Pleasure surged through him at the thought. “You remembered.”
“’Course I did, kid. Vincent Galbini always keeps his promises.”
Vince rapped his hand against the car door, a gold ring clinking against the metal. “Let’s catch up on old times. Where do you call home?”
Peter didn’t want his old pal to see that he was living in an orphanage, even though he wasn’t there as an orphan. Vince had clearly risen in the world. Peter, on the other hand, was just trudging along.
“I’m headed back to the motor garage.” Peter pointed down the street and puffed out his chest. “I’m a mechanic now, and I manage the place.”
Vince whistled. “I heard you were working on cars, but I didn’t know you were the man in charge. You’re doing all right, kid.”
Peter stood a bit taller under the compliment. Vince was proud of him. Vince Galbini, the man who’d taught him how to measure and cut two pieces of wood so they joined without a gap. Peter had learned how to plane and sand and finish from him. Most of all, he’d learned to respect each piece of wood, to feel the flow of the grain and use that to make the perfect cut.
Vince had sure changed in four years. He’d been a hard-luck carpenter from the neighborhood who liked to help out at the orphanage. His trousers were always patched. His stained shirts looked more gray than white. His cap had hidden a mop of wiry hair that rarely saw soap and water, but he’d always had time for the kids, especially Peter.
A couple months before the orphan society plunked Peter on that train, Vince had stopped by to tell them he was leaving.
“I got a real good job,” he’d said with a grin. “They’ll be throwin’ buckets of money at me.”
Vince loved to exaggerate. No one believed he’d really get that kind of money. Except Peter. When Vince promised to come back for Peter after making his stake, Peter clung to that promise. He waited at mail call. He prayed for a telephone call. He sat in the front window and watched the street. No letter, no call, no Vince. Then Mr. Isaacs put Peter on the train, and he figured he’d never see his friend again.
Yet here Vince was, and it sure looked like the company had thrown those buckets of money at him after all. A new Pierce-Arrow cost more than Peter could earn in a decade. Its quiet, powerful engine was the envy of every man who longed to show others he’d made it big. Vince had done just what he’d promised.
“Hop in, kid,” Vince said. “Passenger seat’s empty.”
As he rounded the car, Peter’s pulse accelerated. Maybe Vince hadn’t just shown up to keep a promise. Maybe he was gonna spread a little of his good fortune around. That sure would get Minnie’s attention.
By the time they reached the garage, Peter and Vince were chatting as if it was old times.
Vince whistled when he pulled up in front of the garage. “Nice place. You’re doin’ good for yourself, kid. How many cars can you work on at once?”
“Two inside. Three if they’re small. Let me show you around.”
“Sounds like a good plan.” Vince pushed open his door.
Peter hopped out, taking care to close his door without slamming it, and then hustled to pull open the big doors to the work bay.
His friend moseyed forward. “Looks like you do a good business.”
“Good ’nuff.” Peter dug his hands into his pockets and kicked an ice ball toward the gasoline pump. It banged against the metal case and stopped. Compared to Vince, he’d come plumb against a brick wall. No gal. No fancy car. No car at all. He’d been reduced to fetching female tonic for his sister-in-law.
Vince took a gold cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket. He flipped it open, removed a cigarette and offered it to Peter.
“No thanks. Don’t smoke. Yet.” Peter was too embarrassed to say he found the habit disgusting. His uncle Max smoked, and he wouldn’t do anything that rotten man did.
“Give it a try.”
Peter shook his head and toed the ground. “Maybe some other time.”
Vince snapped the case shut, slipped a lighter from another pocket and lit the cigarette. After a couple draws, he pointed to the garage. “Let’s take a look.”
Once they got inside and Peter started showing off the machine shop and all his tools, the old Vince came back. Excitement lit his eyes, and he asked dozens of questions. He got especially excited when he saw Peter’s wood shop and heard how Peter made the shelving and counter at the bookstore.
“Sounds like you can build anything.”
Maybe it was the lighting, but Peter thought he saw a gleam in Vince’s eye. “Most anything. Can’t make a spark plug, of course.”
Vince laughed and ran his hand over the fender of Mr. Kensington’s Packard. “Have you ever done custom work on the body of the car?”
Peter thought back to the luggage rack Mariah had insisted they make for her Overland after returning from Montana. “Some.”
“Think you could redo an interior?”
Peter wasn’t sure what his friend was getting at. “Not the upholstery.”
“But anything in metal or wood?”
“Sure.” He tried to sound more confident than he felt.
Vince’s grin broadened, and he clapped Peter on the back. “Then I’ve come to the right man. I told the boss that I knew someone that could do the job.”
“What job?”
“It’s more like an opportunity, old sport, a chance to get yourself some of this.”
