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Picking up where Vandrin left off is not the easiest, despite working under him a good chunk of his life. It’s not the cars - Fjord knows cars like he knows the back of his hand, muddied with grease and dried oil with two recent cuts between two different knuckles. Cars are easy, cars don’t talk they just listen, they let Fjord work and hum along to the shitty two-bit radio that’s a hand-me-down from Vandrin like the rest of the place, they let Fjord do what needs to be done in the sanctity of his garage. But people?
It’s not that Fjord’s not a people person, he’s a real charmer on a good day even when his hair is matted to his forehead with sweat and his repairman scrubs have reached a new high on filth. But Vandrin had relationships, he had something beyond “service with a smile”; he connected with his clients, knew them just as well as he knew their cars, and it may not have made them the most famous or wealthiest motor vehicle service garage out there in good old Port Damali, but it did make them the most infamous amongst the right crowds. And Fjord doesn’t want to fuck that up.
Four months after Vandrin’s death and Fjord is still trying to memorize their favored clientele. His friend Caleb even made him flashcards, two sets actually. The first set was far too detailed, no better than reading the formal documents on his laptop except on smaller parchment and in even smaller font. The second was mere word association, much easier on the eyes.
Lavorre - Lexus; thirty year customer, has a daughter named Jester.
That one is easy, she was at the funeral and was his first customer after reopening the garage. Ms. Lavorre brought her daughter too. She drew a chubby unicorn on his workbench, and right next to that, a penis.
Beauregard - Ford; car’s a piece of junk but she’s too stubborn to get rid of it.
Fjord knows Beau, she’s a near weekly customer because her car is just that close to completely falling apart. She’s a bit intimidating, bit of a not-so people person, but she tries and means well. Beau brought him a big cask of her family’s beer after he reopened the garage, she stayed until closing and they drank to Vandrin till the wee hours of the night.
Mollymauk - Yamaha; motorcycle, rare customer but generous.
This one stumps Fjord, from all angles. He’s never met a Mollymauk, with a name like that he’d remember. The photo of the motorcycle on the documents look familiar though, a dark Yamaha with a slap of purple for accents, stenciled with roses. It’s a beautiful bike, really well kept, but Fjord’s never worked on it. Vandrin said it was only ever brought in for a tune up, the owner took extraordinarily good care for the most part, but a second pair of eyes never did anyone any harm. Apparently the owner was early to the shop and early to pick up, Fjord’s never seen him.
Fjord thinks he saw him today, but it’s four in the morning when he tries to sleepily slip the keys into the front door when he hears someone behind him ask —
“Excuse me, you open?”
— and the man’s damn near something out of a fever dream.
The dark Yamaha with the purple accents and the stenciled roses match the man who leans against it, idly checking his fingernails until he knows he has Fjord’s undivided, albeit sleep-addled attention. He’s about Fjord’s height but thin, a string bean strapped in leather from his jacket to the boots, with accents of purple and tattoos, and so very pale. His eyes are a shocking red and Fjord can’t tell if he’s albino with colored hair, or if they’re contacts to bring his look together. The hair is dyed regardless, no one’s got naturally purple hair. But then again, Fjord’s never met a Mollymauk before.
The sharp clang of the keys slipping from Fjord’s fingers and hitting the concrete jolt him back to reality where he’s sure he’s been staring for the better part of a minute. He goes to pick them up, fumbles a bit, blames it on the lack of sleep and straightens himself back up.
“Uh… yeah, yeah we’re open.” Fjord nods before extending a hand. “Mister…?”
“Tealeaf,” the other man extends a hand, long fingers wrapped around Fjord’s. He laughs, wrinkling his nose. “If you want to be fancy about it. Just call me Mollymauk, Molly to my friends.”
He looks up behind Fjord at the garage and squints, tilting his head to one side.
“Speaking of friends…” he starts slowly, letting go of Fjord’s hand. “Where’s Vandrin? He’s usually here by now.”
Fjord stiffens and looks at the floor, taking in a deep breath. Must be an out of towner then, every other regular knew about Vandrin, came by to pay respects and all that. Before Fjord can muster the explanation, Mollymauk interrupts him.
“You must be Fjord?” He looks back to him, crooked smile on his face. “Vandrin’s protégé?”
He gawks at that, chuckles. “I dunno if protégé is the right word, but I worked under him, yeah.”
“Worked? Past tense?”
“Yeah, uh… he,” Fjord takes in another deep breath, steadies himself. “He passed away.”
“Oh.”
It’s a disheartening oh , like he wished he’d been here sooner, like he wished he’d found out at a better moment than right now, at four o’ four in the morning in front of his favorite garage talking to the person most close to Vandrin himself. They stand in silence for a while, not uncomfortable, but it isn’t as pleasant as it was when they had first met.
“We’re —”
“I’m —”
They start and stop together, but Fjord adds, “You first.”
Mollymauk straightens up. “No it’s just… I’m sorry. To hear that, and for your loss. He spoke the world of you, like you were his son.”
Fjord laughs a little at that. “I assure you I was not, but… he was good to me when I didn’t do nothing to deserve it. The least I can do is honor him by doing right by him in death.”
“I see he wasn’t exaggerating about you,” he grins and turns around towards his bike. “It still okay to leave my bike here?”
“For a valued customer? Of course.”
Fjord opens the garage proper and ushers Mollymauk inside into one of the free spaces. Before he can even ask what he wants, he’s handed a thick envelope, paper yellowed and hardened from the sun.
“Just the usual check-up. I’ll be back in three days, same time, and if there’s anything wrong with her, I’ll pay the difference. Good?”
Fjord nods, taking a peek inside the envelope. It’s a wad of cash, far more than what’s needed for a check-up, but when he looks up to confront Mollymauk about it, he’s already taken the nod as an official statement on their deal and is walking into the front yard of the store. There’s a big fancy print on the back of his leather jacket, the center is a large golden sun, but the middle holds a silver crescent moon. It’s flanked by two, beautifully embroidered statues of dogs perpetually howling in this strange sun moon’s direction. Beneath it all is a gradient of deep blues that lead up to bright purples and pinks and fade into small stars that fade further as it reaches the neckline.
“But - wait, this is - don’t you - do you need a ride?” Fjord manages to call out.
Mollymauk puts a hand up. “Nope! I got one,” he looks over his shoulder to wink. “Take good care of her, Fjord.”
As if on cue, someone pulls up in a Harley, much larger than Mollymauk’s model. The one driving hands him a helmet as he moves to seat himself. With one loud rumble of the bike, they’re off, Mollymauk waving back at him until they turn onto the main road and disappear on to the empty early morning streets. Fjord stands at the front of the garage, envelope of money in one hand as he belatedly waves, dumbfounded.
So that’s Mollymauk - Yamaha; motorcycle, rare customer but generous.
--
“That’s a dope ass bike.”
Beau’s in the shop today, again, a record third time this week because something fell off her car again . Not that Fjord minds, it gets lonely in the shop without anyone to talk to now and Beau is good at filling the silence even when she isn’t talking. As he’s attempting to solder her bumper back on - she doesn’t want to buy a new one and she’s too proud to admit she can’t really swing that kind of cash right now, and she’s equally too proud to let Fjord just buy one - she’s admiring Mollymauk’s bike. He’s suppose to come back for it tomorrow and the check-up is all done. There’s nothing wrong with the bike, and all Fjord did was refill the fuel tank and change the oil just for good measure. And also because he paid him double the amount a usual check-up would cost, no reason not to go the extra mile or three for someone who slapped that kinda cash into his hand without a second thought.
“Yeah, don’t touch it.”
“I wasn’t gonna.”
“Seriously don’t, he dropped a shitton on me to give it a look at and he’s coming back tomorrow to pick it up. I don’t need to pull an all nighter because your bad car luck rubbed off on his bike.”
Beau scoffs. “What do you mean bad car luck?”
Fjord looks at her from behind his goggles and motions to her bumper hanging off the hinges, faded stickers slapped onto the back of it.
“Fuck you, it’s got personality. Stop dissing my car, tell me about this dude.”
“There’s not much to say, I don’t know anything about him! He’s been in the database for like two years and visits whenever he’s in town. I think he’s some eccentric rich guy, had some fancy clothes on. His jacket had this sun and moon combo with some dog statues, crazy symbolism.”
Beau makes a noise and slaps her hand on his shoulder. “He had that on his jacket?”
Fjord stops working and looks over at her, pulling his goggles up to rest on his forehead. “Yeah, I think so. He was kinda far away but the embroidery was really… bright. Colorful, you know.”
“Fjord, that dude’s a part of a gang.”
His eyes widen. “Like the mafia?”
“No stupid,” Beau slaps his back, leans against her propped up car and it whines. “Like a motorcycle gang. There’s this hot chick who comes into my bar sometimes, real big and… hot. She’s hot. And she wears a jacket with that same shit on the back! I asked her about it ‘cause I thought it was cool and all. Said it was her gang’s uniform.”
“She just admitted she was part of a gang like that?” Fjord asks skeptically.
“Well… I think she meant like friend gang, or something. She had a hard time explaining it.”
“You could have definitely led with that instead of letting me have a heart attack.”
“Nah, it’s more fun that way.” Beau grins. “I don’t think they’re bad people, a couple others with that same design have come in and they’re… weird. Like the way you described that Mollymauk guy. Like just a bunch of eccentric people who all happen to like motorcycles and travelling.”
“Oh.” Fjord looks over at the bike and keeps quiet for a minute.
Beau lets the silence settle before she asks, “What, did you really think you inherited some crazy mafia deal from Vandrin? Thought you were gonna find a horse head in your bed?”
“ No .” He answers too quickly, turns back to Beau with a disgruntled look on his face before he hides it under his goggles and goes back to work.
--
There’s an extraordinarily large woman standing in front of his garage at four in the morning. She’s covered nearly head to toe in dark leathers, except her plain white tank top she’s got on underneath it all, with long black hair that fades to white at the tips. It’s messy, but in the kind of way that might be purposeful. Fjord can’t tell, it’s not really her hair he’s focusing on.
“Good morning?” Fjord offers as he walks up to her.
“Good morning.” Her voice is soft, much softer than he would’ve thought. She moves away from the front door to let him by and patiently waits for him to unlock it before continuing, “I’m here to pick up Mollymauk’s bike.”
Fjord kind of shrinks at that notion, he was hoping to see him again and all of his purple glory. He opens the door to let her in to the lobby proper and brings her over to the front desk.
“I, um. I can’t let you take it.” He states professionally, but she damn near towers over him a whole head and a half and it’s hard not to be intimidated. “Company policy.”
“Company policy,” she repeats, moreso to herself than to Fjord. “Why?”
“It wasn’t part of our contract. Mr. Tealeaf,” and that just sounds weird coming out of his mouth. “Didn’t mention anyone else coming to pick up his bike. I’m sorry, I can’t in good faith let you take it without his consent.”
The woman stands there a moment before nodding, and digging into her jacket pocket for her cellphone. “One second, please.”
She politely excuses herself and dials, waits, waits… waits. She makes a bit of a face as she hangs up and dials again. On the third try someone picks up, and the woman has a short, quiet conversation with them before she turns and hands the phone to Fjord.
Tentatively, he takes it and brings it to his ear. “Hello?”
“ Fjord ,” Mollymauk sing-songs, a bit tired over the phone. “Good morning. I’m sorry I couldn’t come by to pick up my bike in person, but I had a bit of a long night.”
“Right, sorry! I just, I can’t let anyone take someone else’s property and —”
“No I understand, that was my fault. Good man, good man…” he trails off, yawning. “There anything wrong with her?”
“No, refilled the tank and changed the oil though, no charge.”
“Splendid!” And he can practically hear his crooked smile over the phone. “Now please let Yasha take it so I can go back to bed.”
He sounds like he’s being a good sport about this early morning wake up call, but he can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “Of course, sorry again.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Mollymauk pauses briefly, then adds, “Oh, Fjord?”
“Yes?”
“You free tonight?”
Fjord can feel his face get just a few degrees hotter. He looks up at the woman, Yasha he presumes, but she’s just waiting there patiently. “Yes?”
“Wanna see a show?”
It’s so obscenely vague that if it were anyone else but this strange and equally obscenely vague man, Fjord might’ve said no. But the last four months have been rough, he’s buried himself in his work, only sees his friends when they have car troubles, and Beau might forcibly take him clubbing if he doesn’t take some time for himself. Mollymauk seems like the kind of guy who would know how to have a good time. So he repeats himself, “Yes?” for the third time.
“Perfect, I’ll pick you up around closing time - good night!”
The phone clicks and the line goes dead. Fjord hands the phone back to Yasha, who takes it back with a nod.
“This way to the garage.”
--
Mollymauk’s gang is a bunch of performers who are eccentric, but not rich, and do have an enthusiasm for motorcycles and travelling. Like some kind of modern day circus motorcycle gang. They hold shows in the basement of some dingy bar in town, and they’re marvelous, spectacular, like nothing Fjord’s ever seen except in movies. Mollymauk doesn’t perform, he sits next to Fjord the whole time at a small round table that fills with finger food and drinks the more the night goes on. He says he’s the advertisement along with Yasha, a weird combination but Fjord keeps that to himself. Something’s working, because the place is packed with hardcore fans who wait months for them to make their way back to Port Damali to perform.
“I thought you were some kind of mafia.”
Fjord says this out in the chilly fall air outside of the bar, words a little slurred and lips warm from liquor. Mollymauk barks a cackle of a laugh.
“Are you disappointed?”
“No! No, relieved,” Fjord chuckles, bumping shoulders with Mollymauk. “How long are you guys usually in town?”
“Two weeks, sometimes three. Depends.” He gives Fjord a side-eyed glance. “Probably three this time.”
“Cool. Cool, so we should - could we do this again?” Asks Fjord. The liquid courage is really setting in. “I mean, like, you don’t have to, we don’t have to go together again if you’re busy. But like, if I could get a schedule so I could see you all perform again, maybe bring a couple friends if that’s okay—”
Mollymauk puts a hand up, chuckling. “Don’t be so serious. We’ve got another show this Saturday, if you wanna make it a group affair I’ll save some seats.”
“Yeah, that’d be really… cool.” And there goes the liquid courage. “I mean it, this was really great fun. I haven’t really been out in… well since Vandrin, I’ve been digging my heels into work to keep up what he worked so hard to built, you know?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think he’d want you to run yourself into the ground. That shop isn’t the only thing he cared about, he cared about you too. So take care of yourself,” Mollymauk’s voice softens, a direct contrast to the wide, expressiveness of his hands waving in front of him, only for an arm to hook around Fjord’s shoulders. “And I can help. If you’d like.”
This close, Fjord can smell his aftershave and the leather of his jacket. “I would like.”
“That’s the spirit!” He slaps his hand on Fjord’s chest, lets go of him to saunter over to his bike. He pats the seat. “Live a little! Hop on.”
“Oh, no you don’t need to drive me home, I’m fine, I’ll take a cab or something.” He shakes his head, vaguely motioning to the quiet street they’re on. It’s late, he isn’t sure how late, but probably not late enough for Beau to be sleeping. Maybe. She’d want details anyway, and he’s sure she’d like to know about Yasha.
Mollymauk laughs. “I’m not taking you home.”
“Oh.” Fjord takes a step towards the motorcycle. “Then what?”
“I’m taking you for a ride, and then home,” he grins, leans right up into Fjord’s space, enough for his lips to graze his cheek as he adds, in his ear, “If you’d like.”
The heat in his face is back again, but this time there’s no phone to hide it, so he doesn’t try to. Fjord catches Mollymauk’s gaze as he leans away from his face to settle on his bike. Live a little.
“I would like that ride.” He doesn’t specify going home.
Mollymauk’s grin is so wide it nearly splits his face. “Let’s live a little then.”