Mma Makutsi looked down at her shoes. Give it a try, Boss! She thought for a moment. “Maybe, Mma,” she said. She sounded tentative at first, but then continued with growing conviction, “Yes. I’ll suggest that he’s put in charge of supplies. Then one of two things will happen: he’ll stop thieving because he’s trusted, or…or he’ll take everything. One of those things will happen.”

That was not the spirit of Mma Potokwane’s story, thought Mma Ramotswe, but one had to acknowledge Mma Makutsi’s realism. “Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It will decide matters one way or the other.”

He’ll steal the lot, Boss, whispered Mma Makutsi’s shoes.

CHARLIE REAPPEARED that afternoon. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was involved with a gearbox and the younger apprentice was engaged in a routine draining of oil. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who saw him first, stood up and wiped his hands on a paper towel. Charlie, standing at the entrance to the garage workshop, made a halfhearted gesture of greeting with his right hand.

“It’s me, Boss. It’s me.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni chuckled. “I’ve not forgotten who you are, Rra! You have come back to see us.” He looked behind Charlie, out onto the open ground in front of the garage. “Where’s the Mercedes-B…?” His voice died off at the end of the question. There was no Benz, no car.

Charlie’s demeanour gave everything away—in the way his eyes dropped, in the misery of his expression, in his utterly defeated posture. The younger apprentice, who had come over to stand next to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, looked nervously at his employer. “Charlie’s back,” he said, and tried to smile. “You see, Rra. He’s come back now. You must give him his job back, Rra. You must. Please.” He tugged at Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s sleeve, leaving a smudge of grease on the cloth.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni glanced at the grease marks. It was maddening. He had told these boys time and time again not to touch him with their greasy fingers, and they always did it, always, tapping him on the shoulder, grabbing his arm to show him something, ruining his overalls, which he always tried to keep as clean as possible. And now this foolish young man had left his fingerprints on him again, and this other, even more foolish young man had probably succeeded in destroying an old but perfectly serviceable Mercedes-Benz. What could one do? Where could one start?

He addressed Charlie, his voice low. “What happened? Just tell me what happened. No this, no that. No, It wasn’t my fault, Rra. Just what happened.”

Charlie shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “There was an accident. Two days ago.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni took a deep breath. “And?”