J is for Judgement

the sort of fellow who didn't mind women looking foolish. No luck. He got out, went around, and peered in the back end. He grunted to himself, fiddled with some car parts, and tried the starter again without producing results. He towed the VW to the gas station, where he left it in a service bay and then departed with a sly glance backward and a shake of his head. No telling what he thought of little ladies these days. I had a chat with the attendant, who assured me the mechanic would be in by seven the next morning.
    By now it was well after midnight and I was not only exhausted, but I was stranded as well. I could have called Henry. I knew he'd have hopped in his car and driven down to fetch me at any hour without complaint.
    The problem was I simply couldn't face the drive, yet another lap in the track I was running between Santa Teresa and Perdido. Happily, the area wasn't short of motels. I spotted one on the far side of the freeway, within easy walking distance, and hoofed it across the overpass. In preparation for such emergencies, I always carry a toothbrush, toothpaste, and clean underpants shoved down in my handbag.
    The motel had one vacancy. I paid more than I wanted, but I was too tired to argue. For the extra thirty dollars I was accorded one tiny bottle each of shampoo and conditioner. A matching container held just enough "body" lotion to moisturize one limb. The problem was you couldn't get the stuff out. I finally gave up the idea of being moist and went to bed stark naked and dry as a stick. I slept like a zombie without any medication and decided, with regret, that my cold was gone'.
    I woke up at 6:00, wondering briefly where I was. Once I remembered, I sank down under the covers and went back to sleep, not waking again until 8:25. I showered, donned my clean underwear, and then put on yesterday's clothes again. The room was paid for until noon, so I kept my key and grabbed a quick cup of coffee from the vending machine before I hiked back across 101 to my car.
    The mechanic was eighteen years old, with frizzy red , hair, brown eyes, a pug nose, a gap between his front teeth, and a thick Texas accent. The coverall he was wearing looked like a romper suit. When he saw me, he beckoned me over by doing curls with his index finger.
    He'd put the car up on the hydraulic lift, and we peered at the underside together. I could already picture dollars flying out the window. He wiped his hands on a rag and said, "Lookit."
    I looked, not understanding at first what he was pointing to. He reached up and touched a vise clamp that had been affixed to a line. "Somebody put this little dingus on your fuel line. I bet you only got about three blocks before the engine give out."
    I laughed. "And that's all it was?"
    He unscrewed the clamp and dropped the little dingus in the palm of my hand. "That's all. Car should run fine now."
    "Thanks. This is great. How much do I owe you?"
    "Thanks is good enough where I come from," he said. I drove back to my motel room, where I sat on the unmade bed and called Renata. Her machine picked up and I left a message, asking her to give me a call. I tried Michael's house next, surprised when he snatched up the phone after half a ring.
    "Hi, Michael. This is Kinsey. I thought you'd be at work. Have you heard from your father?"
    "Nuhn-uhn, and Brian hasn't, either. He's called this morning to say Dad never showed. He really sounded worried. I called in sick so I could hang by the phone."
    "Where is Brian?"
    "He won't tell me. I think he's afraid I'll turn him in to the cops before he and Dad connect up. You think Dad's okay?"
    "That's hard to say." I filled him in on events from the night before. "I left a message for Renata, and I hope to hear back. When I talked to her last night, she said she'd see if she could find him. She may have picked him up somewhere out on the road."
    There was a brief silence. "Who's Renata?"
    Oops. "Ahh. Nnnn. She's a friend of your dad's. I think he's been staying at her place with her."
    "She lives here in Perdido?"
    "She has a house on the Keys."
    Another silence. "Does my mom know?"
    "I don't think so. Probably not."
    "Man, oh, man. What a jerk." Silence again. "Well. I guess I better let you go. I want to keep the line free in case he tries to get in touch."
    I said, "You've got my number. Will you let me know if you should hear from him?"
    "Sure," he said tersely. I suspected any lingering sense of loyalty to his father had been erased with the