An elderly woman in line stepped toward them. She had a cane and a small leather handbag. "Ambrose Reed's boy?" she asked, looking at Clayton. When he confirmed it, she recalled how Ambrose had repaired her husband's car during an illness and refused payment until they could afford it. The woman turned toward Kendra and asked why the bank was making a public embarrassment of a family who had kept its promises for decades.
Kendra flushed. "Ma'am, it's a private credit issue."
"Then perhaps it should have been discussed in private," the woman replied. The words were so simple that Kendra had nothing useful to say. Clayton thanked the woman and explained that he did not need special treatment, only a fair review of accurate information.
On his way out, he noticed a brass plaque listing the bank's advisory board. He read it as he read everything lately, slowly enough to see the names without expecting anything. Gerald Peton appeared third on the list. The connection did not prove Peton had ordered the line frozen, but it created a question Clayton could now put in writing.
He photographed the plaque. A bank security guard nearby asked whether there was a problem, then quietly told Clayton his cousin had purchased her first car from Ambrose and paid it off a little at a time. Clayton thanked him. He was beginning to understand that the people who remembered his father had never been as powerless as Peton assumed; they simply had not been asked to look at the same facts together.
Back at the shop, Sherman sat at the office counter with a yellow legal pad. He had listed payroll, insurance, parts accounts, utility bills, taxes, and the next two months of loan payments. A red line marked the point at which cash reserves would no longer cover ordinary operations without new inventory coming in.
"Six weeks if service stays strong," he said. "Seven if we're lucky and nobody makes another move. Less if they hold the fleet and the bank line."
"Payroll comes first," Clayton said. Sherman nodded. They both remembered Ambrose taking no salary for three months during a recession so his mechanics could still pay their mortgages. He had not presented it as heroism; he considered it one of the costs of ownership.
Jaylen stood in the doorway, his hands black with brake dust. "Boss, my rent's due next week. My mother needs help with hers, too. I can work extra hours if you need me to, but if the shop cuts shifts I need to know early."
Clayton turned his chair toward him. He wanted to promise nothing bad would happen, but his father's warning about promises held him back. "I'm not cutting your shift today or tomorrow," he said. "If that changes, you'll hear it from me, not from rumors. I'm going to fight for this contract and make payroll every way I lawfully can. That's the truth I have right now."