Chapter 1: The First Shift
The hydraulic lift groaned, a high-pitched, metallic shriek that echoed off the cinderblock walls of the service bay. It was June of 1973, and the air inside the garage was a thick soup of leaded gasoline, exhaust fumes, and stale cigar smoke.Bug Costigan stood at the edge of Bay Two, his brand-new, stiff blue denim uniform feeling like a suit of cardboard. His hands were clean. His boots were spotless. He looked like an imposter.Hovering above him was the rusted underbelly of a ’65 Chevy Impala, dripping a slow, rhythmic beat of black motor oil onto a metal pan below. And poking out from beneath the transmission oil pan was a pair of grease-stained canvas trousers, ending in heavy work boots that had seen at least three decades of hard labor.
From the shadows of the undercarriage, a shower of orange sparks rained down as a grinder bit into a stubborn exhaust hanger."Hey, kid," a voice boomed from the darkness under the Chevy. It was raspy, gravel-hewn, and distinctly Brooklyn-Italian, carrying the weight of a man who shouted over engines for a living. "Hand me the nine-sixteenths box wrench. Not the open-end. The box. And don't make me wait."Bug blinked, his eyes scanning the chaotic, grease-slicked top of the rolling tool chest. His heart did a quick stutter. He grabbed a wrench, his fingers slipping slightly on the oily chrome, and held it up into the shadows.A massive, calloused hand snapped the tool out of Bug's grip. A second later, a loud, metallic clack echoed, followed by a sharp grunt of exertion.The boots shifted.
A mechanic's creeper rolled out from under the lift with a sharp click-clack of its small wheels.Emerging from the darkness was Vincenzo "Vinnie" Gatto. He looked exactly like the garage smelled: tough, weathered, and unyielding. A half-chewed, unlit cigar was clamped firmly between his teeth. Grease was smeared across his forehead like war paint, framing a pair of sharp, dark eyes that took Bug in from head to toe in half a second.Vinnie didn't stand up. He just stayed sitting on the low creeper, looking up at Bug with a mixture of amusement and deep skepticism."Look at you," Vinnie muttered, tossing the wrench back onto the chest with a clatter. "You look like a billboard for a laundry detergent. You ever actually held a wrench, Bug, or did you just like the way the patch looked on the shirt?""I can work," Bug said, trying to anchor his voice so it didn't shake. "I want to learn."
Vinnie rolled his neck, a loud pop echoing through the bay. He looked up at the dripping Impala, then back at Bug. He pointed a grease-blackened finger at the oil pan."You see that bolt right there? It’s rounded off. Someone before us got impatient. They used the wrong tool, they stripped the edges, and now it’s stuck. Ruined." Vinnie finally stood up, wiping his hands on a rag that was already past its prime. He leaned in, the scent of tobacco and gasoline washing over Bug. "That’s your first lesson, kid. People get impatient with their lives, they force things with the wrong tools, and they strip their own gears. Then they bring the broken pieces to me."He tossed the dirty rag straight at Bug's chest. Bug caught it by reflex, the cold smear of old oil soaking instantly into his clean uniform."Grab the penetrating oil and get under there," Vinnie growled, turning his back to light his cigar. "Let's see if you're a mechanic, or just another guy afraid to get his knuckles busted."
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