“Well, not anything—”
She went on, “I bet he can fix th’ whatsit down in th’ basement that always blows out.”
“The generator,” Al said.
“You have a generator downstairs?” Ron asked. “So that’s where the electricity comes from.”
“It’s always conkin’ out,” Al admitted. “We hafta pay a guy from another gang t’ fix it, or else we go without power. Costs plenty, too.”
Ron nodded.
“Can you fix it?” Al asked flatly.
“I won’t know until I see it,” Ron answered. “But I’ve fixed generators before, and motors, and lots of other stuff.”
“Gun?” Al asked suddenly. “Can you fix guns?”
Ron shrugged. “I don’t know. I never tried. But if they’re not too complicated . . .”
Al eyed him suspiciously. “Okay. We’ll see. Come on down to th’ basement an’ take a look at th’ generator.”
They started to get up. But Sylvia stopped them for a moment. “Al, what happens if Ron can’t fix th’ generator?”
“Then he’s out. He either knows how t’ fix things or he don’t. If he can fix machines, then he can help us, an’ we keep him. If he can’t, then he goes out onna street.”
“On his own?”
“Yeah.”
“But he’ll die. They’ll kill him. Nobody can live on th’ streets by himself.”
“I know,” Al said. He wasn’t being cruel. It was simply a flat statement of truth.
It was an old, old generator, powered by an even older diesel engine that roared and clattered and spewed a fine mist of oil spray through the musty air of the basement. A dim light hung over the machinery. In the shadows Ron could make out a half-dozen drums of diesel fuel.
“How on earth do you get diesel fuel here?” he wondered aloud.
“Never mind,” Al said. “We get it. That’s all you gotta know.”
Ron shrugged and went up close to the machinery. The oil spray stung his eyes. He shouted over the noise, “How long does it run between breakdowns?”
Al waved a hand. “Coupla weeks. Sometimes more, sometimes less.”
Ron could see that the generator was held together with little more than bubble gum and prayer. It vibrated dangerously. In time it would shake itself apart.
He stepped back to where Al and Sylvia stood.
“Can you get spare parts?”
Al said, “You show us whatcha need an’ we’ll get it for you.”
“Okay.”
“Can ya fix it?” Al shouted.
“Sure. Had one just like it in school, in mechanical repair class. Our auxiliary generator at home is a later model—”
“Okay, okay. You can stay ’til it stops runnin’ again. If you can fix it, great. If you can’t . . .” He jerked his thumb in an old baseball umpire’s gesture that meant out.
Ron said, “We ought to shut it down and overhaul it, put in new parts, get it back in good shape. Then it won’t break down on you.”
“Shut it off on purpose?”
“Yes.”
Al shook his head. “Naw, I don’t like that. It stops all by itself often enough. I ain’t gonna shut it down on purpose.”
“But—”
Al walked away from him.
They went back upstairs. Ron could still hear the clattering of the diesel engine. His ears were ringing from the noise. His skin felt slimy with machine oil.
“Okay,” Al said when they reached the ground floor. “You stay until it quits workin’ again. Now go find a room of yer own. I don’t wantcha stayin’ with my girl no more.”
Ron felt the air gasp out of him, as if someone had punched him in the gut. Your girl? he asked silently. He looked at Sylvia, but she wouldn’t look back at him.
“An’ come see me first thing t’morrow mornin’,” Al commanded. “We’ll start gettin’ those parts you want.”
