Bad Apple by Anthony Bruno

and let his gaze settle on the two mechanics as they worked. He knew they were both from the islands, and that the guy doing the brake job was from Haiti and only spoke French. He scanned the garage bays. The floor under his feet was soft with oily grime. Open tool carts stood against the wall like openmouthed monsters waiting for Holy Communion, showing off neat rows of hanging open-end and box wrenches, like teeth. Rubber belts hung from the ceiling like nooses. Muffler parts hung from the ceiling, too, likespare body parts. Pinned to the back wall was a soiled yellow satin banner with the muffler shop’s name and slogan printed in black: MAXXIMUM MUFFLER—MAXXIMUM QUALITY, MAXXIMUM SERVICE, MAXXIMUM VALUE.
    This was one of those minor-league franchises that looked and sounded a little too much like Midas Muffler. Bells had gotten an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach as soon as they’d walked in here. He hated cheap substitutes. He liked essentials, basics, real things. If you needed a muffler, get a good one and then don’t think about it anymore. He didn’t like having cheap crap. Owning stuff like that distracted him. It was like wearing a shirt with a stain. You couldn’t stop thinking about the stain even when you weren’t looking at it. People who borrowed money and then fell behind in their payments were just like stains. They forced him to waste his time thinking about them. People like that were faulty goods and had to be fixed, replaced, or eliminated so that he could unclutter his mind.
    Stanley walked under the Celica. “Did you hear what I said, man? I said go take a coffee break.”
    The man working on the rusted muffler pushed his goggles up onto his forehead. There were dark circles around his bloodshot eyes where the ochre-colored dust hadn’t lightened his skin. “Boss not here, mon,” he said. “Can’na leave now.” His lips were pouty, his expression sullen, and he looked off into the space next to Stanley as he spoke to him.
    â€œGive ’em some money,” Bells said, a little annoyed with all this dickering. Stanley should know better. You want a guy to get lost for a while, you make it worth his while.
    Stanley dug a five out of his pocket and gave it the guy. He took it, but still wouldn’t look at Stanley. He was looking at his buddy, the French nigger from Haiti, who was just standingthere holding a wrench in each hand, his eyes bugging out of his head.
    â€œGo ’head, go. Cafe time. Whatta’ya, stupid?”
    The guy didn’t move. He was petrified.
    Stanley looked to Bells for advice.
    Bells walked over toward the French guy. “Get going, Frère Jacques,” he said. “And hurry up before I call the tonton macoutes. ”
    The French guy’s head snapped up at the mention of the Haitian secret police. Freshy looked confused, as usual, but Mikey Santoro seemed surprised. Bells was insulted. What’sa matter, he didn’t think a guy like him would know about stuff like the tonton macoutes? Asshole. The first time he’d met Santoro, Bells had figured him for someone who thought his shit didn’t stink, one of these guys who thinks he’s a little bit better than everybody else. What’d he think, just because a guy’s a shylock from Jersey, he’s ignorant, he’s some kind of dees-dems-and-dose bum who only reads The Racing Form? Yeah, Bells had known guys like Santoro before, guys who thought they were God’s gift to something. He knew one thing for sure: Mikey-boy thought he was God’s gift to Gina DeFresco.
    Yeah, he knew all about Mikey-boy making a big play for Gina. What Freshy hadn’t told him, he’d pretty much pieced together himself. It wasn’t hard to figure. Santoro was trying to use all his Mr. Clean charms to sweep Gina right off her feet and right into his bed. See, he thinks he’s better than everybody else. He thinks just like