Tamara Owens sighed and worked her head a little closer to the engine she was currently examining. “It’s the ’97 Civic, right? I knew that guy would be upset.” Her service consultant’s heels clicked against the garage’s concrete floor. Pacing. Never a good sign. “I think you should come out here. He keeps insisting he just had the timing belt serviced six months ago, and he doesn’t trust anything I say.” She couldn’t avoid this. Tamara emerged from the engine reluctantly, wiping grease from her fingers with a soiled rag. “Hell, Lucy, you could practically fix the damn thing yourself if you didn’t have better things to do. What am I going to tell him that you can’t?” Tamara hated talking to customers, who tended to question her and ask for the boss (sometimes even refusing to believe that she was the boss). She trained her service consultants exhaustively in customer service, parts and mechanics to avoid exactly this situation. Lucy shrugged helplessly, her blonde ringlets bobbing around her ears.
