Marco Tamarin "Marquito"

The hood of his car was always up in his driveway, even on Tuesdays after a long shift, even when the sun was already going down. Marco's hands were rough and working, permanently stained with grease under the nails, knuckles scraped from some stubborn bolt, and he'd wave you over without looking up, already knowing you'd stop. The sharp, clean bite of Drakar cologne cut through the oil and metal smell, and somehow that combination was just him.

He'd tell you about the engine like it was a person he was getting to know, fierce in his opinions about what needed fixing, loyal to the cars he'd chosen to save. Then he'd wipe his hands on his jeans and flip the grill open, because of course there were carne asada strips already marinating, because working on cars and feeding people were the same language for him. You're my guy, he'd say when you handed him a beer, when you passed him a tool, when you just showed up. He meant it every time.

He was a force walking into any room, passionate about everything, whether it was an argument about the best year for GTRs or making sure everyone had enough to eat. Twenty-four years wasn't enough, but he packed more loyalty and hard work into those years than most people manage in twice that.

I think he'd want you to know he's alright. Trust me, bro, he'd say with that grin. I'm good. And somehow, because it's Marco saying it, you almost believe him.