Hand over the badge, grandpa. Corporate sent me to clean out the dead weight

Trevor tossed a termination letter onto the Mustang’s hood, smudging the wax I’d spent an hour buffing. “Effective immediately. No severance. You should’ve retired ten years ago.” He smiled at his own audience, the three junior techs he’d already bullied into silence that week. I picked up the letter, folded it twice, and slid it into my chest pocket. “Trevor,” I said, “before you fire anyone else, you might want to read the acquisition paperwork you signed on Monday.” He laughed. “I don’t take notes from janitors in coveralls.” I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I knew by heart. Marcy from legal picked up on the second ring. I put her on speaker. “Marcy, can you confirm for the room who currently chairs the advisory board for Pendelton Holdings?” Her voice came through crisp and amused. “That would be you, Mr. Pendelton. Unanimously reappointed last quarter. Is there a problem?” Trevor’s face went the color of brake fluid. The junior techs stopped pretending not to listen. “Marcy,” I said, “there’s a Trevor Halsey here who just terminated me on the shop floor. In front of staff. Without cause. Without HR. He also called a customer’s restoration project ‘dead weight’ yesterday — I have the cameras. What’s our exposure if we keep him?” “None,” she said, “if he’s gone by lunch.” I hung up. Trevor opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “This — this is a misunderstanding, Hank. Mr. Pendelton. Sir.” “It’s Hank,” I said. “To the people who earned it.” I nodded at the door. He didn’t move, so Diego — the kid Trevor had made cry on Tuesday — walked over and held it open for him with the gentlest smile I’d ever seen. After Trevor’s car peeled out of the lot, I turned to the bay. “Lunch is on me. And Diego? You’re running Bay 7 starting Monday. Try not to fire anyone in a coverall.” The garage erupted. I picked up my wrench and got back under the Mustang. Forty-one years. Still the best seat in the house.