“Mornin’, Slim.”
I turned around from the stack of tires I was straightening, only to be confronted with a cloud of cigar smoke hovering above a badly wrinkled business suit. My first thought was to run for the fire extinguisher, but then the cloud spoke again.
“Where do you want Dutchy to drop the car?” The noxious smoke began to dissipate and Dickie Dixon’s beefy round face slowly appeared. The thick stogy clenched in his teeth was a trademark of our local used car lot owner – that and his penchant for pinching pennies. He eyed a stack of take-off tires waiting for pick up. “Hmm; I could use some inexpensive rubber. Do they come with a warranty?”
Ignoring him, I looked across the lot to where Dutchy was leaning against his tow truck, waiting to unload the 1996 Ford Mustang perched atop his flat deck. “Right there’s fine, Dutchie,” I called. Turning back to Dickie, I asked, “I’m assuming it doesn’t run?”
Dickie took the cigar out of his teeth and flashed me a smile. “You assume correctly, my good man. My client was driving down the highway when the vehicle suddenly died, never to start again.” He waved the cigar towards the car. “Now that’s a brand new rebuilt engine, Slim, so I’m sure the solution will be simple, and therefore…” – his smile grew even bigger – “…inexpensive.” He waddled back to his Cadillac and drove off to sell yet another mechanical wonder to an unsuspecting customer.
Tooner joined me in the parking lot. “Huh, another one of Dickie’s used car specials.” He shook his head. “So what’s the story this time, Boss?”
I opened the driver’s door and pulled the hood release. “It’s not a ‘used car’, Toon. It’s a ‘D. Dixon Pre-owned Transportation Unit.’ And according to DD, it’s even got a rebuilt engine.”
Tooner peered closely at the 3.8-liter engine. Straightening up, he removed his cap and slicked back his thinning hair. “Well, maybe it does and maybe it don’t, but whoever installed this thing sure ain’t no mechanic. There’s brackets missing, hoses pinched, and the wiring harness is a mess.” He sighed heavily. “Who knows what we’re gonna find.”
Calling for Basil and Beanie, we pushed the car into the shop and began diagnosing the problem.
When Beanie turned the key, the engine cranked fine, yet hit hard every third or fourth revolution as if the ignition timing was out of synch. Tooner pulled off the coil wire. “Hey, Beanie; come out here and hold this thing. I want to check for spark.”
“Ha!” Beanie glared at him. “Very funny, Toon, but I’m not falling for that trick.”
Tooner produced some insulated pliers and chuckled. “Why not? You did last week.” He held the coil wire near a bracket while Beanie cranked the engine again. “Hmm. We’ve got spark, but it’s very erratic.”
Further checks revealed an unreliable signal from the crank sensor, as well, so the boys installed a new one. But that didn’t solve the problem; the car still would not start.
Basil stroked his goatee. “I’m beginning to think we’ve got timing chain problems.”
“Timing chain?” questioned Beanie. “But this is supposed to be a rebuilt engine.”
“Correction,” grunted Tooner. “It’s a Dickie Dixon rebuild. Lemme pull the coil pack and cam sensor so we can take a look inside the timing cover.”
It was time to cheer up the gang, so I sent Beanie over to the Krispy Kreme store for a dozen of the best. After putting on a fresh pot of coffee, I even wiped off the coffee table with a clean rag.
“My word,” said Basil as he entered the lunchroom. “We’re going all out today.” He settled into his chair and tucked a napkin under his chin. “Ah, this is just the way I like it.”
At that moment, Tooner appeared and slouched into his own chair, a smug look on his face. “Time to celebrate,” he announced, reaching for an apple fritter. “The ole Toon has solved another one.”
Beanie wiped some chocolate frosting off his nose. “Okay, out with it.”
“Well, in order to check for slack in the timing chain, I grabbed the crank pulley with both hands and gave it a turn.”
We waited as he slowly savored a delicious bite of sugary pastry. “And…?”
Tooner was enjoying himself. “Oh, the pulley turned, all right. But the timing chain didn’t. Whoever installed this engine managed to cross thread the crankshaft bolt. As a result, the pulley wasn’t tight and eventually it broke, right ahead of the keyway.”
Beanie’s eyes widened. “So the pulley and reluctor ring are turning separately from the crankshaft?”
“Exactly.” Tooner took a swig of coffee. “I only hope the threads in the crank aren’t ruined, or Dickie’s in for a large repair bill.”
Beanie reached for the best donut in the box, a triple-chocolate croissant. “Hold it, Bean,” I said. “You’d better leave that one. I’ll need it later.”
“What for?”
“As a pacifier,” explained Basil, catching my drift. “It’s going to take more than a new cigar to calm Dickie down when Slim tells him that his engine deal was really no deal at all.”
