Shop Talk by Carolyn Haines Page A

between
Mad Max
and that cartoon character, Skeletor.” She shook her head. “I wonder what the others look like.” There was a certain amount of interest in her voice.
    Bo still held his screw driver, but he no longer felt like the doctor on
Chicago Hope.
Now he was Tom Selleck,
Magnum,
in a bad episode. Most episodes were bad for poor Tom. He was always getting it in the eye whenever he tried to do his duty or just be a regular nice guy. Bo sighed and wished some reasonable inner voice would speak to him and make it all better.
    Iris heard the sigh and saw the droop of his shoulders. The idea of Lucille and her weird friends in the shop every week was both infuriating and intriguing. She’d never known Lucille to meet anyone on a regular basis. “Maybe those women have brothers, or cousins, male relatives that Lucille can date.”
    “You mean male relatives who aren’t in prison?” Bo made a face. “Forget it, baby. I want Lucille to marry someone who’ll take her off my hands. I don’t want her dragging some other poor jerk into the family so I have to support two of them.”
    “Right.” Iris looked up as the front door bell jingled aggressively. “Holy shit,” she said. “This is ‘Day from Hell'.”
    Bo said nothing as the tall, burly man walked toward them. His step was measured, his gaze holding Bo’s, disregarding Iris completely. As he drew nearer, Bo could see that his eyes were laced with red veins and a pulse throbbed at his left temple, clearly visible beneath the short, gray hair.
    “No house calls, Mr. Gavin.” Iris spoke first. Tensed and coiled, she waited by Bo’s side.
    “My television is broken. It’s too big to fit in my trunk. I want it repaired.” His tone was commanding.
    “You have to bring it in.” Iris walked to the counter and took up her position.
    “My business is with Bo.” Abe Gavin dismissed Iris with a sneer. “This is between us men.”
    “Bo doesn’t make house calls.”
    “What kind of repairman is he?” Abe Gavin clenched his hands at his side. “I’ll pay him triple.”
    “No,” Iris said. “No amount of money. No house calls.”
    “But he always comes to our house. My wife is expecting him. She’s baked a fresh apple cake just for him.”
    Iris saw the sympathy in her husband’s eyes. “Absolutely not. Remember the pitiful woman who trapped you in the bathroom? Remember the elderly man who had no family, only his TV? Remember the fat girl who nearly sterilized you by grabbing you?” Iris turned back to Mr. Gavin. “No house calls. Not now; not ever.”
    “It’s not the set. It isn’t even broken. It’s just that Gladys, my wife, says that Bo reminds her of Gerald, our boy. He lives out in Oregon. Gladys just misses him a lot. If Bo came by to check the set, it would be like having Gerald home for a visit. Just for a piece of cake and a cup of coffee. Fresh apple is Gerald’s favorite.”
    Iris shook her head. “Mr. Gavin, Bo can’t leave the shop because he’s been ordered by the courts not to leave the premises.” She nodded at her own ingenuity as she took the older man’s arm and led him to the door. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she was. As much for Bo as the Gavins. When she turned back to her husband, she saw the horror on his face.
    “Their desperation has crawled up under my skin and it’s running around like the alien. Pretty soon it’s going to burst out of my chest and devour everything in sight.”
    “Bo, honey,” Iris sighed and kissed his cheek. “You can’t make Gerald be a good enough son to remember to give his mama some attention. You can’t take care of everyone and make it right for them.”
    “It eats at me.” Bo eased the wires down to his work table. “You think hell bring the set in?”
    “No. It’s not broken. He told the truth–Mrs. Gavin just wanted to pretend for half an hour that her son, Gerald, was home and that he was nice enough to drink some coffee and eat some cake she baked