“I will watch the puppy,” declared Maia. “We can play cow-girls, and I will teach him to fetch. We shall have a tea party.” She wrinkled her nose. “And then he won’t get all dirty playing with the greasy cars. He doesn’t like being dirty.”

Sam closed his eye as she patted him on the nose.

He wasn’t going to hurt her.

I took a deep breath. “I think he likes the music,” I told Sylvia.

She huffed. “I think you want him out of your way.”

“Maia wants to babysit,” I said. “It’ll keep her occupied.”

Sylvia looked at Sam thoughtfully. She shook her head at me but didn’t fuss when I left him lying there.

Zee had shut the door between the office and the shop—he’s not fond of Latin music. So when I went in, I closed it behind me, too.

4

THE FIRST THING I HEARD WHEN I EMERGED FROM THE bathroom with my working overalls on was Zee swearing in German. It was modern German because I could understand about one word in four. Modern German was a good sign.

The Buick was in the first bay. I couldn’t see Zee, but from the direction of his voice, he was under the car. Gabriel was standing on the far side of the vehicle; he looked up when he heard me come in, and relief flashed across his face.

He knows Zee is… well, not harmless, but that Zee won’t hurt him. But Gabriel is too polite—and as a result he has to put up with a lot more of Grumpy Zee than I do.

“Hey, Zee,” I said. “I take it that you can fix it, but it’ll be miserable, and you’d rather haul it to the dump and start from scratch.”

“Piece of junk,” groused Zee. “What’s not rusted to pieces is bent. If you took all the good parts and put them in a pile, you could carry them out in your pocket.” There was a little pause. “Even if you only had a small pocket.”

I patted the car. “Don’t you listen to him,” I whispered to it. “You’ll be out of here and back on the road in no time.”

Zee propelled himself all the way under the car so his head stuck out by my feet.

“Don’t you promise something you can’t deliver,” he snarled.

I raised my eyebrows, and said in dulcet tones, “Are you telling me you can’t fix it? I’m sorry. I distinctly remember you saying that there is nothing you can’t fix. I must have been mistaken, and it was someone else wearing your mouth.”

He gave a growl that would have done Sam credit, and pushed himself back under again, muttering, “Deine Mutter war ein Cola-Automat!”

“Her mama might have been a pop machine,” I said, responding to one of the remarks I understood even at full Zee-speed. “Your mama…” sounds the same in a number of languages.