At 6:00 in the evening, the air compressor finally shut off for the night. The sudden quiet rang in the ears. Dean walked into the front office, wiping his hands on a fresh rag. He stopped in his tracks. The front desk was entirely clear.
The unpaid bills were neatly stacked under a paperweight. Beside them sat an envelope. "What is this?" Dean asked, his voice rough. "$3,200," Clare said, shutting down the prehistoric desktop computer. "Collections from past due accounts.
I also ordered the Volvo parts from a different supplier two towns over. They'll be delivered tomorrow morning." Dean stared at the envelope. He stared at the clean desk. He looked at Clare, who was already putting on her cheap canvas jacket.
"You did all this today?" he asked, the suspicion warring with raw relief in his chest. "I told you," Clare said, picking up a cheap umbrella she'd bought at a gas station. "I'm a firewall. See you tomorrow at 8," Dean. She walked out into the rain.
Dean stood in the quiet shop, holding the envelope of cash. He looked down at Sam, who was spinning slowly on the stool. "Who the hell is she?" Dean asked the empty room. Sam shrugged.
"She scares people on the phone. I like her." By week three, the shop didn't smell completely like an industrial disaster. Clare had introduced industrial-grade bleach. She didn't clean the mechanic's bays.
She left the grease and grit where they belonged, beneath the heavy lifts and rolling tool chests. But the front office was surgically sterile. Dean hated it. He also loved it. The duality gave him a persistent headache.
He stood wiping oil off a heavy socket wrench, watching through the scratched plexiglass window as Clare dismantled his oldest supplier. Rick was a loud, heavyset man who had been overcharging Dean for brake rotors since Dean's father ran the shop. Rick was currently sweating. He was backed against the laminate counter, clutching a clipboard to his chest like a piece of armor. Clare was sitting down.
She didn't even have the decency to stand up and intimidate him properly. She just stared at him over a pair of cheap reading glasses she had bought at the pharmacy next door. "I'm not asking for a discount, Rick," Clare said. Her voice cut effortlessly through the dull hum of the garage exhaust fan. "I'm stating a market reality.
Your wholesale markup is 22%. The regional average is 14. You are penalizing this shop because of a cash flow issue that no longer exists. "Listen, lady, I've done business with the Millers for a decade." "Hey, Dean, you've exploited them for just as long," Clare interrupted.