Dead Politician Society

Chapter 30: Matthew

Matthew slammed his fist into the hood of his ancient Ford Escort. “Work, you motherfucking rusted piece of metal.”

A soft voice came from behind. “You shouldn’t talk to your car like that.”

He turned to see that know-it-all Clare, helmet in one hand, cigarette in the other. He might have found the tight jeans and leather jacket compelling had they been hugging the curves of someone he could stand to speak with.

“Sorry for the language,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Doesn’t bother me.” Clare took a drag, smiled like she found the toxic cancer fumes delicious, and exhaled. “It’s your car that might take offense. Would you do any favors for someone who talked to you that way?”

“Don’t you have someplace else to smoke?”

“Nope.” Clare nodded at her bike, parked on the main road at a meter. “Can’t smoke and drive. Want me to take a look?”

“Be my guest.” He moved aside to give Clare access to the hood. “Maybe it’ll like you.”

“I’ll start by being nicer to it. Hello, Car.” Clare set her helmet on the ground and tossed her fancy studded black jacket on top. What normal student could afford designer leather? She crushed out her cigarette with a chunky black boot. She glanced inside the hood. “So what’s the problem?”

“Are you talking to me or the car?” Matthew said.

“You, dummy. I know cars can’t talk.”

Could have fooled him. “It’s acting like it has the whooping cough.”

“You mean backfiring when you try to start it?”

Matthew nodded.

“Any smoke?”

“A bit.”

Clare poked her head under the hood and seemed to study the engine. “I know more about motorcycles than cars, but maybe I can help. The car’s pretty old, right?”

“Right.” Forgive him for not driving the latest Bentley like her parents.

“Good. My dad’s never owned anything newer than ten years old.” She pulled a spark plug out of its socket and blew on it.

So her father was that kind of rich guy. Kept all his money in blue chip investments and was too cheap to share it back into the economy that made him. Or maybe she meant ten-year-old Ferraris. “Does your father collect old cars?”

“Huh? Yeah, I suppose you could say that.”

Clare got flat on her stomach and looked under the car. He liked the sight. Her ass was perky for a skinny chick. But she was back on her feet in a few seconds.

“You’re not leaking anything,” she said, “which is good. I’m gonna start by cleaning the spark plugs. They’re caked with gunk.”

“You mean it might be something simple?” He didn’t want to think about the cost of a tow unless he had to.

“Maybe.” She frowned. “But there’s a reason the plugs are so dirty. Have you noticed any small oil leaks recently? Spots on your driveway at home?”

He couldn’t remember seeing any. “No.”

Clare removed the remaining spark plugs and set them gently on the ground. “Do you have a rag? Or more ideally, sandpaper?”

He grabbed an old T-shirt from the hatchback. “Will this work?”

“Thanks.” Clare took the shirt and started to polish a plug. “So did you always want to be a politics professor?”