The Firebird was up on a lift when a man came into the garage speaking Spanish.
J.R. jumped in to translate since he is bilingual. The guy evidently wanted to buy salvage cars and ship them to Mexico where they are chopped and tagged. After he left J.R. said that if he comes back then I should treat him right because he knew how to make a buck.
I was in the middle of reattaching a ground wire to the engine block with my hand way up behind the head and said dead-pan, "My Spanish book doesn't cover illegal exports to Mexico until Chapter Two."
Steve laughed as he welded a shoddy catalytic converter joint and asked what Chapter Three was.*
"Crystal meth manufacturing."
"And people wonder why Arizona is against multi-cultural education," mumbled Steve through a shower of sparks and cigarette smoke.
J.R. lit up a cigarette and ignored us. His eyes were filling with dollar signs. I dropped the bolt and swore.
* Chapter One is Pablo Neruda
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