Rust by Julie Mars Page A

drove older cars, the kind they loved and wanted to keep alive no matter what. These cars whispered and sang in Rico’s ear when he worked on them. They complained, confided secrets, and sometimes asked for help. He knew they were just machines, but Rico felt that each one had a personality, a presence like no other, and by the time he closed the hood and sent them on their way, he always knew them a little bit better than he had on their last visit, something he certainly didn’t feel about their owners, who all seemed to have much the same concerns: “Oh no, how much will that cost me, Rico?” and “Is that the very best you can do, Rico?” and “Could I pay you half next week, Rico?” Over the years, he had learned how to say yes and how to say no, whom to trust and whom to doubt, and how to make it clear that he was not a man to fuck around with, should that particular message be called for. In that, he had advanced much farther than his own father, who got screwed left and right because he was too nice a guy; or else, perhaps, because he just didn’t have it in him to protest, having used up all his energy trying to control and then reject Fernando.
    Sometimes Rico thought he got his tough streak from his older brother, that it was developed and tempered like steel under fire. The extreme duress of Fernando’s presence, like a whip delivering a never ending series of lashes, created in Rico a kind of endurance and strength, but also a cut-off point, one that could not be safely passed by anyone. If he got pushed, he retaliated, pushed back with all the pent-up fury of never having stood up to his brother, not to the day he died. How could he? Fernando was a force of nature, like a tornado intent on leveling whatever crossed its path, like a fire intent on consuming the houses of the rich who dared build on the edges of the forest. Rico was helpless before his older brother, but through the years—exactly ten from the time Fernando changed until they laid him in his grave by the Big I—he grew harder inside, as if his arteries and veins were lined with lead and his nerves with carbon steel. It gave him a place to stand up straight in this world. In fact, Rico, in his generous moments, considered it a gift, the one and only, from his brother, and even felt grateful. All he had to do was look out the doors of his garage to see men so beaten down by life that they did nothing but wander around, wearing filthy army jackets that no longer zipped closed and carrying dirty bedrolls strapped to their backs. The Albuquerque Rescue Mission was just a few blocks north. Rico was one of the local business owners to whom Father John made a personal visit every Thanksgiving, asking for a contribution toward the annual dinner at the mission, and Rico always handed over fifty dollars cash.
    Speaking of cash, he now had thirty-five unexpected dollars in his pocket and the promise of more. He wanted this money, which Margaret would hand him hour by hour, to be just his. It probably wouldn’t add up to any more than a few hundred bucks all told, but he wanted to keep it apart from household finances and the demands of his flock of girls. He didn’t want to waste it on some new tool or some operating expense for the garage either. He wanted to stash it somewhere and wait until the precise minute that it became clear to him how to spend it, and then he wanted to slap it down and walk away with whatever it was he wanted. For the first time ever, he needed a hiding place, and he looked around the garage with a sharp eye, noticing his city business license, which was, according to the instructions, prominently displayed in the work area. He took it down off the wall, pried the piece of cardboard backing out of the cheap frame, and pressed the bills inside. It made him feel good to know it was there.
    Driving home that evening, waiting to make a left onto La Vega Drive, Rico happened to notice Wilfredo coming up the acequia , the