“The diesel shop,” Nate said.

“Frank is usually in the office on Sunday afternoons doing his billing and inventory.”

Frank Miller’s repair yard was a corrugated steel building with three overhead bays and two acres of broken farm machinery sitting in the tall grass behind the wire fence.

Nate parked by the front office door and went inside while I stayed in the cab with the passenger window cracked two inches.

Through the dusty office window, I could see Frank sitting behind a gray metal desk piled three high with invoice folders and greasy parts manuals.