Today i inched closer to solving two mysteries.
The first has to do with the 24-hour(!) llantería (that is, "tire store") around the corner from my house. While it is comforting to know that i can go get some bitchin' rims or have my tires rotated at any hour of the day or night, i am surprised that there is enough demand for these services between, say, 0100 and 0500 to justify keeping the lights burning and the norteña music pumping at all hours. Thus, my best guess about this place is that it's a front for some sort of illegal activity.
However, it is also the absolute closest tire store to my house, so i went there this morning to clean up after the second mystery: Isa turning up with a flat rear left tire. This mystery kicked off on Monday night, when i walked out of the grocery store and discovered the tire to be alarmingly low. I pulled into the nearest gas station, re-inflated the tire, and hoped for the best.
The next morning, i was relieved to discover that the tire had remained inflated overnight. I drove around for the next day and a half with no problems, and promptly forgot all about the Low Tire Mystery until Wednesday, when i got home after a lunch meeting, went to go take the trashcans back inside, and heard a violent hissing. Dammit. Why is there a hole in the side of this tire? It certainly wasn't there on Monday. I spent the next forty-five minutes lying in the asphalt bike lane on Flamingo in 105 degree sunshine, two feet away from three lanes of traffic whizzing by at 45 MPH, laboring to get heat stroke and put the toy spare on[1].
When i arrived at the heroin den/brothel cum tire store this morning, i was informed that it was impossible to fix my old tire, but they would happily sell me a new one for $97. I agreed, and learned this tantalizing nugget about the llantería: they accept no checks or credit cards; only cash. I suppose this makes it easier for them to launder money for whatever shadow organization lurks behind the scenes.
After i paid (out of my poker bankroll, because why else am i going to just have $97 in cash on me?), i was rewarded with a clue about Mystery #2. Upon separating the old tire from the wheel, the helpful tire guy reached into Isa's now-dead Bridgestone and plucked an 1/8" allen wrench from inside. So at least i now know why i had a flat.
The more perplexing question, of course, is how in the hell did i run over an allen wrench such that it penetrated the tire? Did the hardware rape Isa's tire on Monday but take until Wednesday to puncture the sidewall? Was the low tire on Monday just a red herring? Was there foul play involved?
As with most mysteries, the clues so far only lead to more questions. Fortunately, the new season of CSI will start soon, so maybe i can get some backup from the crime lab.
[1] Yes, forty-five minutes is a long time to change a tire. A lot of this time was spent finding the jack handle (cleverly hidden on the underside of the trapdoor-thing that hides the spare from the rest of the trunk), the lug wrench (cleverly buried by me under a bunch of other tools and trunk detritus), and the arrow-labelled spot on the undercarriage where my Owner's Manual insists the jack is supposed to go (i never did find this magic spot).