Chapter 8: Miguel and Sharon

October 5th, 1995, 5:30 PM CT, Side of the road, Near Palmer, TX

Sharon Roberts cursed in frustration. She was driving back to I-30 when this happened. Chex had the “day tank” option that was really common on Checker Taxi cabs but was something of a rarity on the consumer-oriented Marathon. But then, the four-cylinder Perkins diesel was a rarity on the Taxi and unheard of practically on the Marathon. The “day tank” was a 35 gallon fuel tank that allowed the car to to go about 450 miles on a tank of diesel- the car would only have to refuel when at the taxi depot changing drivers. It was popular with Taxi operators for obvious reasons, but people who bought Checkers were not usually traveling salesmen, and thus its function would be of limited use. Her father, however, was.

She had gotten almost 300 miles before she looked at her fuel gauge and noticed that she needed fuel soon. She got off the interstate at the Palmer exit, and went to the station right by the side of the road. She found out that there had been a run of trucks on the station and they were out of diesel fuel. The kind owner of the station directed her to another place that sold diesel fuel. It was out of her way, but diesel could be hard to find. Better get it now than risk running out. That was her usual plan of action when it came to refueling on trips to places she wasn’t familiar with.

She had to drive about eight miles down the country road to a station that looked like it was out of Smokey & The Bandit II. It was down a gravel road and the car had been bouncing and shaking along it. They got the fuel- and it was a reasonable price, too- and headed back towards the interstate. The station was fully self-service; the owner was lounging in a seat out front of the station and could not be cajoled to get up from the seat for love or money. It even had a little sign posted outside the station saying “cash-only.”

She had studied her map and figured that this road, if she continued down it, would connect her more directly to a main road that would get her back to a point further down the interstate. So instead of turning around and going back where she came from, she continued down the rough and bumpy road. She wasn’t worried about the car; it was a Checker Marathon, built for New York taxi service. Compared to the cobblestone and pot-hole ridden streets of that city, this was a piece of cake.

As she was driving along, though, something seemed wrong, and she checked her instruments. The engines temperature gauge was pegged on the red; she must have seen the heat waves coming off the hood. She pulled over and opened her hood to be greeted by a wild blast of steam. The old diesel had suddenly, and for the first time she could ever remember, wildly overheated. She could tell from the way things had happened that she had, thank god, stopped before any truly major problems had occurred. But she was still pissed.

“Shit!” she cursed, “Why now, old friend? Why the fuck did you have to do this to me now!?”

“Don’t curse, mom,” Jessica said, “There are better ways for us to express ourselves, you keep telling me.”

“Shut-” Sharon started, raging, before pausing and forcing herself to calm down, “You’re right, I’m sorry. Mommy is just very upset right now.”

They were miles away from help. There was a farm across the road from where her car rested. She cranked open the windows- thank god for manual windows- and told her kids to not open the door for anyone. Then she locked them in the car and walked off in the direction of the farmhouse.

A Mexican, probably a migrant worker, walked up to her as she was walking towards it. He was older, and somewhat handsome, with a grandiose handlebar mustache.

“Hola, señorita,” he smiled, “That beauty yours?”

“Yeah, it’s mine,” she said in clipped words. She was always wary of Mexicans. It wasn’t that she had anything against them, but she had heard nasty stories, and given her circumstances in life, she was wary of any man anyway. She had a hard time trusting them at all; her husband had seemed to be a nice guy, once, too.

“It’s a treasure. Going to a car show?” he asked.

“No, it’s my only car, actually. It’s never let me down before.”

“Awesome, these things, they go for ever and ever,” he smiled, showing surprisingly nice teeth, “It’s really nice to see an old machine like that being used for the purpose it was designed.”

The Mexican man had astonishingly good English for a migrant worker. He seemed to be well raised and even educated. This intrigued her somewhat, but her mind was mostly focused on the problem at hand: being trapped miles from help with a broken car, with a strange engine, that nobody probably knew how to repair.

“Well, it’s not going now,” she snapped with a pout. She didn’t mean to be rough, but she was really in a bind at that moment.”

“Let me take a look, I know cars pretty good,” he said, “In fact, I was a mechanic at this farm.”

“Was?” Sharon asked.

“Yeah, the old man died, and his wife, she’s not interested in farming anymore. She keeps me around because I’m like family, always watched her kids for her and stuff.”

“I doubt you could do much,” Sharon said, “Its a rare model, its powered by a Perkins diesel.”

“You are very lucky then,” he smiled very brightly and amusedly.

“Why is that?”

“Because we have a 1964 Massey-Fergusson diesel tractor,” he said, “and I have taken that apart and put back together so many times, I could probably do it in my sleep, and that has a 4-cylinder Perkins diesel. I don’t know if its the same engine, but it can’t be all that different.”

“Alright. What’s your name?”

“Miguel Rodrigo Abaca, at your service,” he said with a small bow, “What’s yours?”

“Sharon. Sharon Roberts.”

He offered his hand, “Pleasure to meet you, Sharon.”

“You’re a charmer, Miguel,” she smiled and took his hand. Before she knew what was happening, he had kissed it like a gentleman from an old movie.

“Want me to take a look at it?” he said with a smile.

“My kids are in the car, just so you know,” she told him, to let him know she was not alone.

“So? I like kids.”

“Sorry, I’m just...” Sharon was at a loss for words.

“I understand, señorita,” he said, “Nasty men come in all kinds of packages. A single woman alone should always be careful.”

They walked over to the car, and Miguel looked in the hood. He looked around and about, looking carefully at different parts and sections on the engine. It was an easy space to work; the 3.8 liter four-cylinder was considerably smaller than the Chevy V-8s and Continental 5.4 liter six-cylinders the car was originally designed to accommodate; and even so it had been designed for fast work on even those monsters. Space was generous, and access was easy.

“Sharon, I think I see the problem,” he told her, “Do you have a jack?”

“No, I threw out the old one, it was rusty. I was going to get another one but Chex never let me down before ... I know thats really dumb, but, well...”

“Chex? That’s a nice name for this car,” he grinned, “Don’t feel dumb, all kinds of people forget to replace broken equipment on their cars. Come with me, let me get you and your kids something to drink, because it sure is hot out here-”

“No, I don’t want to impos-” Sharon started- the truth was she didn’t want to go inside alone with a strange man.

“Nonsesne,” Miguel cut her off, “Ms. Weisenstein really loves company, and children doubly so. Do her some good to meet some new people once in a while.”

Given the presence of another person, and a woman, who did not sound hispanic, Sharon was more comfortable. Sharon got the kids out of the car, telling them they were going inside to enjoy the coolness of the air conditioning. It had been somewhat hot inside, anyway- it was southern Texas, after all.

Miguel lead the way back to the house, and brought the kids in and introduced them to Ms. Weisenstein. True to form, she went all goo-gaw over the kids and insisted they have some milk and cookies she had just made. She must have been in her 80’s, a Q-tip grandma type. The kids were comfortable, Sharon was more comfortable, and Miguel went back outside to deal with the car.

Miguel went out to go get the old Massey-Fergusson tractor and haul the car into the farm’s garage. While he was working, he was thinking about Sharon. She was a really, really nice lady about his age, and quite attractive for her age, too. She probably made some guy an exceptional husband. He really liked her. He hoped he could get some contact information so they could remain friends. He liked helping people; it had long been his basic mission in life, ever since he was a kid, actually.

The old lady had told him that sooner or later he was going to have the leave the farm, and he wasn’t happy about it. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. She loved him, in a motherly kind of way, actually, as if he was her son. She wanted him to take some money and leave, so that she could leave him something before she died and her greedy children came in and took it all. Gladys Weisenstein was like his mother to him. His birth mother had died in childbirth. He had been born on that farm, and he was content to spend the rest of her life on it.

He didn’t really want her money at all. But he reluctantly knew it was time to move on. He’d been working there for 24 years now- ever since he was 16- and lived there his entire life. His father and mother were migrant workers that the Weisensteins had taken in before he was born. When his mother died, and his father drank himself half blind, they had taken him in practically as their own. They were like family to him. She wanted him to move on to better things, and he didn’t want to see her die. It would tear him to shreds, and they both knew it.

He finally got to looking at the underside of the car. What he saw was more than just a mechanical problem. It deeply troubled him.

Meanwhile, Sharon was enjoying Ms. Weisenstein’s hospitality. She really seemed to like the kids, and the kids liked her. Sharon’s parents were both dead and her kids never really had a grandmother figure in their life. On top of that, her cookies were just about the best she had ever had. They certainly weren’t the typical ‘home made’ cookie that involved either copying the Tollhouse recipe whole-cloth, or buying Tollhouse dough and baking it in your own oven.

Miguel came back in with a very serious expression on his face. He looked almost like he had seen a ghost. He was pale and a bit shaky. He was trying to put on a calm and brave face, but he was failing at it miserably.

“Sharon, let me show you what I found,” he said shakily.

She followed him out to the garage, which seemed like it was set up for full-sized repair and maintenance, as would be required for a farm of a lot of acreage. Considering there was almost no planting on this peace of land, that was more than a bit surprising to Sharon. It didn’t make sense to have such a large machinery shop in a barren farm.

“What do you need all this garage for?” Sharon asked.

“Before Ms. Weisenstien’s husband died,” Miguel said, “This had been a large farm. We had almost 2700 acres of planting, and another 1200 of pastures. Glad- er, Ms. Weisenstein just hasn’t had the patience to run something that large, and I couldn’t manage it effectively, so over a few years, we ended up shutting the whole thing down and selling off a good chunk of it, actually. I still plant a few acres to give us fresh produce and to raise a few animals, so we also sold much of the equipment, too.”

“You’re the only employee, then?”

“That’s a long story,” Miguel said, “And very hard to explain. But I need to ask you, is there someone who doesn’t like you?” Miguel asked.

“Why do you ask, Miguel?”

“Well, let me show you,” Miguel said, “First of all, the problem you had that made you break down here is that someone literally drilled a hole in your coolant tank and then patched it with something, I suspect chewing gum. It was intended to fall out and leave you stranded in a place with bad roads. You’re lucky it did.”

“Why am I lucky? Because I met you?”

“SHAH!” he hissed, “You don’t want to say that because you’d regret it. The reason is this isn’t the only problem.”

“Huh?” Sharon asked, very confused. She didn’t quite understand what he meant by that.

“Whoever did this doesn’t know much about cars, thank god,” Miguel continued, “they punctured the fuel return lines with some kind of knife here,” he pointed, “Here, and here. If this was a gas car, you’d be dead by now. Fortunately for you, diesel has a very high temperature flash point, and is almost immune to sparks.”

“Jesus,” she said.

“He wouldn’t have helped,” he grinned, trying to add some humor to the situation, “Lastly, they played the same game with your brake lines that they did with your radiator. The brake fluid is leaking out, as you can see. If your car didn’t overheat when it did, you’d have lost your brakes about the time you got back on the interstate. That would kill you in a panic situation, I guess. Although I get the impression you’re someone who knows how to use all four brake systems on the car,” he smiled.

“Five,” she said, “Hydraulic brakes, the emergency uses a second set of drums, the transmission, naturally. I also have an exhaust brake and a Jacobs brake on it.”

“You got a Jake on this thing?” Miguel asked, incredulous.

“Yeah, my father used it to tow both our camping trailer. Perkins made a Jacobs head for this motor for small truck applications. I think ours is the only Checker fitted with a Jake.”

“Yeah, but still, someone was clearly out to kill you, and perhaps your kids, too.”

“Jesus, David.”

“David?” Miguel asked, “I mean, it’s none of my business but...”

“My ex-husband, that crazy bastard,” she huffed, “I never thought he’d ... he’d ... try and ki- kill uh uhs uss...” she started crying. She knew he was a mean guy, but she didn’t realize until now just how far he would go to try and hurt her. He had said that he wanted to keep her at any cost; this was the first time she really got the idea of what any cost meant; that if he couldn’t have her, nobody could.