“Well, Mr. Merwin, from what I can see your engine at least is in excellent condition, yes, excellent! You want me to fill ‘er up?”
Frank nodded wordlessly. He wasn’t at all surprised at the mechanic’s rapid inspection of the engine. After all, the J.J. had been given the best of professional care and the benefits of his own considerable work since he’d purchased her. Hector did not look up as he set about releasing the protective panels over the right-side .70 caliber.
“If I may ask, how do you plan to go?” Frank had the big Meerschaum out and was tamping tobacco into it.
“Hmm. I’ll go down Burbank to the San Diego Freeway and get on there. It’d be a little faster to get on the Ventura, but on a trip of this length that little bit of time saved would be negligible and I don’t see the point in fighting the interchange.”
Hector nodded approvingly. “Quite wise. You know, Mr. Merwin, you’ve got two pretty bad stretches on this trip. Very iffy, I read—about your son. I sorrow. The jornada de la muerte comes eventually to all of us.”
Frank paused in lighting the pipe. “Couldn’t be helped,” he said tightly. “Bob didn’t realize what was —what he was getting into, that’s all. I blame myself, too, but what could I do? He was eighteen and by law there wasn’t anything I could do to hold him back. He simply took on more than he could handle.”
One of Hector’s grease monks had wheeled over a bulky ammo cart. The mechanic waved the assistant off and proceeded about the loading himself. Frank appreciated the gesture.