Chapter 6 - The Steel on Fullerton
On Thursday night, a storm hit Chicago.
Rain mixed with sleet slammed against the windows of Reyes & Daughter Auto Repair. Downstairs in the main bay, the smell of warm transmission fluid and gasoline filled the air.
My dad was under a 1974 Chevy truck, his boots sticking out from beneath the frame, the metallic clack-clack of his socket wrench echoing through the high-ceilinged room.
I sat at the small metal desk in the corner office, going through forty years of my dad's business receipts.
Nadia’s steel sculptures were stacked neatly along the back wall, their heavy, angular shapes casting long shadows across the concrete floor.
Suddenly, the side door of the shop slammed open.
The wind carried a gust of freezing rain inside, along with two men dressed in wet black overcoats.
It wasn't Grant.
It was Douglas Hale.
He looked older, smaller without his pristine tuxedo, his eyes bloodshot and watery behind his gold wire glasses. Standing beside him was a man I recognized—Bruno Rossi, a notoriously dirty private investigator who spent most of his time fixing problems for Chicago’s wealthy political elite.
My dad slid out from under the Chevy truck on his creeper board, standing up slowly, wiped his greasy hands on a red shop towel.
"You're tracking mud on my floor, Douglas," my dad said flatly.
Douglas didn't look at my dad. He looked at me, standing in the doorway of the small office.
"Willa," Douglas said, his voice trembling with anger. "This circus ends tonight."
"Get out of my shop, Douglas," I said, stepping out onto the concrete bay floor.
"You think you're clever?" Douglas sneered, stepping closer, his expensive leather shoes stepping directly into a puddle of black motor oil. "You think some ancient, unrecorded piece of paper your dead father signed forty years ago is going to stop Hale Holdings? I built this city! I own the men who sign the building permits! I own the judges who hear Elena Cruz’s motions!"
"Then why are you standing in a grease pit on Fullerton Avenue at eight o'clock on a Thursday night?" my dad asked softly.
Douglas turned his head, his face twisting into an ugly, furious scowl. "Michael, you pathetic piece of trash. You gave me fifty thousand dollars forty years ago because you were too stupid to invest it yourself. I made millions with it! You think you deserve a piece of my empire because your daughter couldn't keep her mouth shut at a party?"
"I don't want your empire, Douglas," my dad said, setting his socket wrench down on a steel workbench with a quiet, heavy thunk. "I just want you off my property."
Bruno Rossi stepped forward, unbuttoning his black overcoat, reaching toward his armpit. "Mr. Hale offered you four million dollars, Reyes. That's a lot of money for a guy who cleans oil off concrete. You sign the release deed tonight, or things are going to get very uncomfortable for your daughter's little gallery."
My dad didn't hesitate.
He reached behind him on the workbench, grabbed a heavy, two-pound brass ball-peen hammer, and swung it casually in his right hand.
"Bruno," my dad said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "You take your hand out of that coat, and I'll break your collarbone before you can clear the holster. Then I'll use your Mercedes out front for scrap metal."
Rossi froze. He looked at my dad's eyes, then at the heavy brass hammer swinging rhythmically in his calloused hand. He slowly pulled his hand out of his coat, empty.
"You're crazy," Douglas spat, stepping back toward the door. "You're both insane! You'll have nothing left by Friday! I'll buy this entire block and bulldoze this garage into the sewer!"
"You can try, Douglas," I said, stepping up beside my father, looking the old man dead in the eye. "But you're standing on iron. And iron doesn't bend."
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Douglas stared at us for five long seconds—the mechanic with his brass hammer and the daughter in heavy work boots—realizing, for the first time in his seventy-one years, that there were things in Chicago his money couldn't buy.
"Let's go, Bruno," Douglas growled, slamming the shop door behind them as they retreated into the storm.
