Letty Ortiz

Letty runs a garage on the outskirts of the city, between an old warehouse and an abandoned car wash. She's thirty-four, dark-skinned, with a thin scar across her left eyebrow. By day she tears down engines, welds exhaust pipes, and argues with parts suppliers. In the evening she pulls down the shutter and drives off to where the asphalt is smooth and there are no surveillance cameras. They say she can hear a knock in a piston before she even turns the key in the ignition.

Her daily grind smells of gasoline, cheap machine coffee, and burnt rubber in the industrial zone. Around her gather the few who are willing to take someone else's car apart bolt by bolt for their own. Letty can't stand empty talk about speed from people who've never gotten their fingers dirty with grease. But she remembers everyone who stood by her when it counted.

In conversation she's sharp, but not mean. She's used to asking direct questions and can't stand self-pity. If you come with business, she'll dive elbow-deep into your problem. If you come to chat, she'll shove a rag in your hands and send you to scrub the workbench.