Erica tried to hold in her laugh, but it came snorting out from between her pressed lips.
“What?” Joey asked, defensive. “Big tough guy can’t have a dog named Tinkerbell?”
“No, it’s fine,” Erica said, the giggles still just below the surface. “It’s a very pretty name for a dog.”
“And she was a very pretty dog. Beautiful collie mix. Best dog I ever owned.”
“I’m sure she was,” I said. “And hey, if she did pass away, maybe you can clap your hands together real hard and she’ll come back to life.”
That did it. Erica burst out laughing and I joined in right behind her.
“Fuck you and fuck you,” Joey said, pointing to both of us in turn. “If she is alive, I’m going to have her bite your balls off, Rick.”
We were still laughing when we pulled up to a scrap yard situated on the banks of the Delaware River. PPL Stadium loomed large just a few blocks away. Towering over it all was the Commodore Barry Bridge, a blue-gray relic from the ’70s that was the perfect vessel to transition drivers from the bucolic farmland of South Jersey to the grit and grime of Chester, PA.
A lighted sign, the boxy kind that you can slide black plastic letters onto and off of, stood over the entrance to the parking lot. The top-right corner of the white background behind the letters was missing, the victim of a rock, bullet, or some other late-night projectile. The letters remained untouched, however, and spelled out Enzo’s Scrap, just as it had the last time I was there. The guard booth a few feet into the lot was still there too, its white paint even more chipped and faded than the last time I’d driven up to it. Appropriate since “chipped and faded” could also describe the skin of the guard inside.
“We’re here to see Frank. Is he working today?” I asked as we pulled up.
“Yeah, he’s in the back of the warehouse somewhere,” the old guy growled.
His voice sounded like rocks being jostled inside a paper bag. I remembered it well. He clearly didn’t remember me.
“Just park anywhere?” I asked. He nodded and pressed a button that lifted the red-and-white striped wooden arm blocking our path. I thanked him and drove through.
“He didn’t even ask to see ID,” Joey mused.
“He didn’t even ask your name,” Erica elaborated. “What is his purpose, exactly?”
“To collect a paycheck and avoid his wife more than anything,” I said as I pulled into a spot by the trailer that served as Enzo Moroni’s office. “But, unless there’s been a change in corporate policy, there’s a shotgun in that guard booth strapped underneath a small counter and pointing roughly head level at the driver of any car that pulls up. The old guy—Cliff, or something like that—doesn’t like what he sees, he has permission to pull the trigger and ask for forgiveness later.”
“Who would want to rob a scrapyard?” Erica asked as we got out of the car. “Nobody,” I answered. “But there’s a lot more than scrap metal being processed here.”
We entered through an open bay door where a forklift idled and immediately were hit with familiar warehouse smells. Oil, grease, and the faint musk of accumulated dirt. The weekend skeleton crew was in, so we passed unabated through aisles of metal shelving stacked high with everything from engine blocks to copper wiring to rusted backyard grills. At the opposite end was another open bay door that led to the yard where they took in larger items like cars, riding mowers, HVAC units, etc. Just before we passed through it a voice called to us from the end of the aisle to our right.
“Can I help you?”
The years had not been kind. His hair, thin and gray when last I saw him, had been reduced to a few strands clinging to a blotchy scalp through a sheer act of will. He wore glasses with simple frames, but the lenses looked thicker. Denim jacket over a flannel shirt. Blue jeans and steel-toed boots that had seen better days. I was pretty sure it was him, but just to be safe I said his name as a question, rather than a greeting.
“Frank Cochran?”
“That’s me. If you have something to scrap you gotta bring it around front first so we can check it in, then we’ll take it out back and weigh it.”
I walked up to him so his thick lenses could do their work.
“Been a long time,” I said. It took him a minute, but slowly his expression melted from confusion into recognition.
“Rick!” he said, and the smile wiped all nine years off his face. He took my hand and shook it like a long-lost uncle. “How the hell have you been? Where have you been? Are you home for good?”
I smiled right back—it was impossible not to—and clapped my other hand over his. “It’s good to see you too, Frank.”
“And who do we have back here, this your new lady friend?” He looked over my shoulder and winked as Erica and Joey approached.
“No, these are some business associates of mine.” He shook hands with both of them, too, and said it was nice to meet them. “We’ve got some shopping to do.”
The smile remained, but it thinned slightly and the eyes narrowed. It was the smile of a salesman smelling a fresh lead. Seventy-whatever years old and the guy still loved his work. Gotta admire that.
“What did you have in mind?” he asked.
The scrapyard was an open field of dirt and weeds with piles of junk metal sprouting from it like acne. There was no rhyme or reason to it, no discernible organization to the stacks. Some were nothing but heaps of jagged leftovers from a dozen different construction projects. Some had washing machines mixed with old piping mixed with kids’ bicycles. It was an unalphabetized CD collection, a toddler’s room with no parental supervision. It was a mess. And it was all intentional.
The washing machine with the scratch on the lid in the shape of a W? That one was filled with bricks of opium. The gas grill with blue spots of paint flecked on its red lid? Inside, beneath the cooking grates, a folder stuffed with stolen credit cards. And the 1984 Buick Regal sitting on cinder blocks with no wheels and a cracked windshield? Inside the trunk, under a false bottom, were half a dozen semiautomatic rifles. A Cadillac in another pile hid some handguns. The saddle bags of a beat-up Harley were loaded with C4. Frank showed us everything like a jeweler pulling out engagement rings from a glass case.
“You always had the best stuff, Frank,” I said, dropping a brick of plastic explosive back into a leather saddle bag.
“Clean, too,” he said with pride. “Practically like buying them off the rack.”
“Except without all that messy paperwork.”
He scrunched up his face. “Filling out forms gives me carpal tunnel, and besides, it’s bad for the environment. Think of all the trees I’m saving.”
“We all have to do our part,” I agreed.
“So what’ll it be?”
“I still qualify for the friends and family discount?”
