And that’s the problem with drugs in a small town. Ninety percent of people aren’t going to get involved, even if they know something’s not right. But then again, that’s how the gossip and finger-pointing actually stay at a minimum.
“You got any idea who’s supplying it to him?”
Jock shakes his head. “Nope. Not a clue, but he’s barely trying to hide it now. I’m hoping he figures his shit out and gets clear of it before something like this happens to him. He’s got two kids, man.”
I wonder silently if that’s how Jock’s buddy justifies what he’s doing—making money to give his kids a better life than he had. Around here, there’s not much opportunity for jobs that pay well, aside from the furniture factory and the hospital.
“I hope he gets clear of it too.”
Jock nods and heads out the door while I wash up.
A half hour later, a jacked-up black Chevy truck pulls in with a rusted-out 1969 Oldsmobile 442 on a flatbed trailer. The man who climbs out of the passenger seat is one I’ve only ever seen on TV, and I head outside to meet him.
“Sorry I’m late. Got caught in some traffic outside of Nashville. Who knew Bumfuck, Kentucky, was so goddamned far away.” His voice sounds just as gravelly as it does when he’s onstage.
“Shit. When I saw ‘B. Thrasher’ on the work order, I didn’t expect to see Boone Thrasher rolling up here.”
The country singer holds out a hand. “We’ve got a mutual friend, and she says you’re the guy to fix up this rusted-out wreck for me.”
Holly Wix is the only person he could possibly be talking about. Seems she’s sending a lot of interesting things into my life lately.
“Oh, she did, did she?”
“So don’t make a liar out of Holly, because I’ll be holding it against her and not you.”
I can tell by his tone that he’s joking ... sort of.
“I don’t think we’ll have a problem. Let’s go inside, and I’ll grab a sketch pad. This is the kind of project I need to draw.”
“I like you already,” Thrasher says, following me inside.
We spend the next hour talking about his options as I sketch out a rough idea of the design. Black and red. Classic interior, but details unique to Boone, like brass knuckles and skulls. We both stare down at the pad when I finish.
“It’s going to be slick as shit when it’s done,” I tell him. “You’ve got good taste, man.”
Thrasher shrugs. “I got more money than taste, but I’m counting on you not to let it look like shit. You’ve got the reputation to uphold, and if it comes out like I’m thinking, you’re going to have a hell of a lot of business coming your way. I’ll get this beast into every classic-car mag out there, and then people will be bustin’ down your door.”
If Boone Thrasher is true to his word, my business will be changed forever. Not just pushed to the next level, but into the stratosphere. I shove down my excitement because I’ve gotta prove myself first and see what happens.
“Then I better make sure you’re in love with this car when it’s done.”
“Fucking right.”
“You turning around and driving back to Nashville tonight?” I ask as he crosses his arms over his chest and nods.
“Yes, sir. I’ve got a tour kicking off in a couple days, and they get pretty pissed if I’m not on that bus when I need to be.”
I can only imagine what his life must be like.
“I’m kinda surprised you drove all the way out here yourself.”
He gives me a shrug. “This isn’t the kind of project I can pawn off on a roadie or an assistant. I needed you to hear from me exactly what I wanted.”
“Understood. I’m not going to let you down, man.”
“Good. How long you think it’ll take?”
“Give me eight weeks, just because I don’t know how long it’s going to take to get all the body pieces replaced, and I’ll see what I can do.”