Jaylen nodded, relieved by the honesty even though it offered no guarantee. Sherman wrote another line on the pad: contingency meeting with staff. Clayton agreed that the mechanics deserved to see the finances relevant to their jobs, not a cheerful speech that hid the risk. They held a brief meeting after closing and let everyone ask questions. Nobody resigned. A few offered to take on more repair work while the fleet dispute continued.
Wednesday morning, a red-and-white county vehicle stopped directly beneath the big sign. Fire Marshal Duke Hollander climbed out with a clipboard and announced that his office had received a complaint about unpermitted signage. Duke was fifty-five, orderly, and visibly uncomfortable with owners who asked him to show the underlying rule.
"That sign's been there since 1979," Clayton told him. "My father welded the frame. It's older than the stoplight at the corner."
"There's no permit in the current database," Duke replied. "The complaint calls it an electrical and structural hazard. I have to issue a notice until the records are checked."
"Then inspect it," Clayton said. "If a wire is unsafe or a bracket is loose, I'll fix it today. But don't call forty-seven years of permitted operation a violation just because your database doesn't show the old files."
Duke examined the supports and found no immediate visible defect. He admitted the county records from the late seventies were incomplete, then issued a temporary removal order based on the unresolved complaint. It allowed a short period for appeal, but the shop's insurer warned that continued display under an active notice might complicate coverage. Rosa, reached by phone, advised Clayton to comply temporarily while challenging the order in writing.
The decision made Clayton feel physically ill. They could appeal. They could argue about jurisdiction and grandfathering. But the practical burden of a disputed sign remained on the business, and another week without insurance certainty could be worse than lowering a piece of red steel.
Sherman brought out the tall ladder. Clayton offered to send two younger mechanics up, but Sherman refused. He had held the ladder for Ambrose when the sign went up, he said, and he would be the one to help take it down. The younger mechanics held the feet of the ladder while Sherman climbed with a wrench in his pocket. He loosened each bolt slowly, pausing when his shoulder hurt and refusing to be rushed.
As they lowered the frame, a father and his young son stopped near the service entrance. The boy asked why the red letters were coming down. His father tried to answer without making the scene more frightening than it already was. "Somebody's checking an old rule," he said. "I think the sign will be back."
The shop seemed smaller once the sign lay on the asphalt. For the first time in Clayton's life, the facade was only a broad gray wall above the bays. A familiar landmark had disappeared from Route 9, and several customers called that afternoon to ask whether Reed Auto Shop was closing.
Sherman covered the sign with a clean canvas tarp and smoothed its edges the way a man might cover furniture before leaving a house. "Ambrose," he murmured, "I never thought I'd be the one taking it down."