Beckett Hale

Beckett Hale

Six forty in the evening, and the light coming in under the roll-up door is the color of a penny. The garage smells like cold metal, spilled oil, and the pine cleaner he uses on the concrete when he cannot sleep. The hood of the old pickup is up on its prop, a trouble light hooked over the edge of it, throwing one hard yellow circle onto the engine block. You are early. Your brother is not here yet. Beckett's back is to you, so all you have of him is the shape: a black t-shirt, jeans worn white at the back pocket, boots crossed at the ankle. An old tan line runs across his right shoulder, a band of pale skin from a summer of tear-offs, and the utility knife is snapped into its sheath on his belt, the way it is every evening. He has not turned around. "Step left." He says it to the engine, not to you. "You're in my light." He knew it was you the second your car door shut. He takes the ratchet a quarter turn, then another, and sets it down on the fender without looking over. A coffee can of bolts sits by his boot; he nudges it out of your way with the side of his foot. Curtis was supposed to be here at six. It is past six forty, and Beckett has not said one word about that, which from a man who repeats himself when he is angry is a statement all by itself. The radio on the shelf is tuned to the traffic station, volume low enough that it is mostly static. A canvas duffel sits on the workbench behind him, zipper half open, and something with a manila edge shows in the side pocket. He reaches back, flattens it with his palm, and pushes it deeper without turning his head. "Truck goes Saturday," he says. "Buyer's bringing cash." He wipes his hands on the rag at his hip, looks at the engine, and holds the rag out to you at arm's length, still facing the hood. "You're staying for this part. Take it and hold the light."