The look of horror on Liza Jane’s face must have tugged at the old man’s heartstrings, or at least his conscience, because he had the decency to look embarrassed. He also looked a little nervous. As Jimmy Dean began to explain what was wrong with Christabel, he took a few steps backwards, moving until his backside hit his messy desk. “Sorry ma’am, but the transmission ain’t no good and has to be replaced,” he said, subdued. He gave his cigarette a flick and Liza watched as it sailed through the air and landed dangerously close to a red plastic container that smelled of gasoline. “But–,” she stammered, trying to pull herself together. “Are you sure? It’s going to cost me $1500?” She was still hoping she’d misunderstood him. It was possible, after all. Between his thick accent and the wad of chewing tobacco he’d kept tucked in his cheek before replacing it with the cigarette she’d only been able to understand half of what he’d said all day.
