The Only Fixer

I carefully smoothed out the creases on the dirty banknotes, folded them neatly, and solemnly placed them in the inner pocket of my coat.

That pocket pressed tightly against my chest.

Standing behind Bill all the time, a young girl frowned. She was the boss's daughter, Melody Lamar.

I did not look at anyone and turned around directly toward the dusty machine. My back was straight. "Now, it's mine."

I walked around the DMG machine, as if inspecting an old acquaintance I had not seen for a long time.

The others had dispersed and returned to their workstations, but everyone's ears were perked up, and out of the corner of their eyes, they would occasionally glance at me, the "clown" in the corner.

Melody did not move. She crossed her arms and stood a little distance away, her face showing blatant suspicion and curiosity.

"I need a set of tools," I told her.

She raised an eyebrow. "What tools? They're in the warehouse. You can get them yourself."

I shook my head and recited a string of Gorman words.

Melody's expression froze. Although she barely understood, the pure Gorman pronunciation made the disdain on her face fade a little. "What did you say?"

I switched back to English and patiently repeated, "A Gorman-made Hoffmann tool set, 16 sockets, a torque wrench, and a precision micrometer set. They were bought with this equipment when the factory was built; it should be in a silver metal box."

Donald Winston, the workshop supervisor and a seasoned equipment maintenance veteran, scoffed. "Hey, Mr. Zigger, do you think this is your home? You know where everything is? We don't have those in our factory!"

I calmly replied, "You do. It's on the second shelf in the warehouse, the third box from the top. It should have an 'Ersatzteile' label on it."

Donald's expression instantly changed.

'Ersatzteile' was Gorman for 'spare parts'. They did have that label there, but few people in the factory recognized it.

Melody's eyes flickered before she said to Donald, "Mr. Winston, go check it out."

Skeptical, Donald muttered, "I think he's just guessing." He then led two workers to the warehouse.

A few minutes later, the three men returned carrying a dusty, silver metal box, their faces filled with shock.

The box was opened, revealing a brand-new, gleaming set of Gorman-made tools neatly arranged in a red velvet lining, the packaging oil still wet.

Donald's face flushed red and then paled.

A few suppressed gasps came from the crowd.

Melody's gaze toward me changed completely.

I ignored their reactions, pulled my reading glasses from my pocket, and took a half-meter-long metal stethoscope from the box.

I did not open any of the machine's electrical control boxes, nor did I connect any diagnostic equipment. I gently placed one end of the stethoscope against the outer casing of the machine tool spindle box. Then, I leaned down and pressed the other end firmly against my ear.