On her way, Stephanie pondered what had just happened. When the commanding group of visitors had shown up, the stunned women could do nothing more than slink back to their cubicles, leaving Stephanie alone to take the heat. Incensed, Linda had demanded to know why no one was working. Stephanie, distraught, had stood in an effort to explain, but burst into tears partway through the apology. The visiting dignitary–much to Linda’s chagrin–had come to the aid of the expectant mother, comforting and congratulating her. Then he’d complimented the entire room full of women on their fine work.
Outside the conference room, Stephanie took a deep breath and opened the door. She couldn’t help but notice the rings of sweat that stained the armpits of her team leader’s tan jacket. At last safely behind closed doors, Linda launched into her well-rehearsed tirade. “I thought I could depend on you, Ms. Wilson,” she screeched. “You knew we had out-of-town visitors today . . .”
Stephanie stifled any more tears, refusing to give Linda the satisfaction. “I’m sorry . . . it wasn’t my fault. Someone overheard me telling Maggie, and the next thing I knew everyone wanted to see.”
“You made me look like a witch,” Linda scolded, pressing her face toward Stephanie’s while keeping her back to the glass looking out into the main office.
Stephanie bit the inside of her cheek, unable to contain herself. “You didn’t need my help for that,” she blurted out, seething but still managing to hold the tears at bay.
The woman’s face scrunched up in a sour-lemon expression. “You slut! You’re probably the one who’s been filing complaints about me. Well let me tell you something. I’m going to make your life a living hell the next five months. You’ll wish you never worked here, and I guarantee there will be no leniency for your condition.” Lecture over, little-lord Linda plastered a smile on her face, swung open the office door, and waited for Stephanie to step out. “I apologize again–and congratulations on the good news!” she said in her best, kindest voice, loud enough for the whole room to hear.
Vinnie dropped Mitch off at Mike’s shop, once more inviting the expert body-man to consider his offer. As he pulled away, he rolled his wrist to check the time on his Rolex, then took his cell phone from an inside suit pocket. “Tell me what you found out about this Mitch kid.”
Bino’s raspy voice came on the other end of the line. Inside his booth, he pressed the phone to his ear. “He was arrested for . . . armed robbery at 17 . . . got a reduced sentence . . . finished probation a couple years ago.”
“He’s our man. How do we own him?”
“Won’t be easy. . . . Doesn’t even buy hot merchandise.” “What time did you say he’s showing the car?”
“Four.”
“Cancel with your buyer. I’m sending someone over.” Vinnie punched in a second number. The friendly front he’d presented to Mitch minutes before had been erased, replaced by a cryptic scowl. “Angelo, call Clint. Get the address of Mitch Wilson–he’ll know who it is. . . . Yeah. You’ve got an appointment at four to pick up a cah at the drop. Stay out of the teller’s view.”
Back at the gas station, Bino gathered his oxygen cart and opened the sliding glass door to the booth. Janice, his part-time help, was making her way across the worn asphalt from her car, parked near the upright fuel tanks at the back of the lot.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” Bino called out, winded. “I’m expectingMitch . . . at four.”
“Who’s he?” Janice was still trying to pull her hair back into a bun
as she spoke. She gave the appearance of a 60-year-old live ventriloquist doll, the way her lower jaw seemed to fit up inside her smiling
pudgy cheeks. She worked an occasional hour or two during the days
when Bino needed to run an errand, and almost every night and some
weekends. Bino always paid her in cash.
“He’s the kid . . . with all the old cars.”
“Yes, I remember him. Such a nice boy.”
“If I’m not back before he gets here, tell him to let the man take his car
while he waits. I trust him.”
Janice sniffed at the stale air outside the booth and cast Bino a suspicious
glare. “Okay . . . have you been smoking again?”
“No . . . one of my customers.”
“That’s good. It’s not healthy, you know.”
Janice had been buying her gas at the station since its first pump
was turned on some 25 years earlier. The widow lived only a few blocks
away and would drop everything and come help out whenever Bino
called. She didn’t have much upstairs, but she loved people and would
never think to pry into their personal affairs. Living alone, the few
extra dollars she made from the station helped stretch the meager social security checks she received each month.
Janice entered the teller booth and opened the rest of the windows.
The smell of tobacco was still strong. The place badly needed airing
out. She eyed the rear lot as Bino climbed in his car–struggling with
his oxygen–then reached down and dumped the overflowing ash tray
contents into the garbage can.
Bino turned the motor over. The five-year-old Audi puffed out almost as much smoke as its occupant. He’d often joked that he was
going to drive it off a bridge and collect the insurance. Mitch had
worked on its engine a time or two, and with a little encouragement
probably would have fixed it for him. He said it wasn’t worth fixing
the re-built, as he’d totaled the car just a few months after he climbed
back on the wagon and his old friend Jimmy had done a horrible job
fixing it back up.
Having added the final touches to the GTO, Mitch collected his tools and put them in the trunk. Mike had casually asked him about his drive with Vinnie, but Mitch was reluctant to talk.
Mike, skeptical, tossed out a hook, a query that would tell him everything he needed to know. “You’re welcome to leave your tools here.”
Mitch, ignoring the offer, locked the immaculate tool chest encircled by loose power tools and closed the trunk. “My appointment’s at four. I’ll be back after that; we need to talk.” That said, Mitch backed his car from the open bay and drove away.
Mike scrambled to close up and follow Mitch, worried he might have taken a job offer from Vinnie. It was the only explanation: why else would he leave four thousand dollars worth of tools in the back of his car when he’d planned on dropping them off after school.
Not a single customer was at the station when Mitch arrived a few minutes before 4:00 pm. He hoped Bino had collected the information on Greg Hart and was ready to decipher the man’s failed suicide attempt. Disappointed to find Bino out, Mitch leaned up against the teller window. “Hi, Janice,” he said. As she slid open the window the combined odor of potpourri candles and stale ashtray drifted from the small room. “Where’s Bino?”
“Well, I expect him any time. He left you a message. Let’s see . . . he said if he didn’t get back before you got here, to let the buyer take your car for a drive. He trusts him.”
Mike yanked the parking brake into place. Positioned in an empty hotel parking lot a half block away, he dislodged a pair of field glasses from under his seat and peered off through a clump of palm trees in the direction of the station. Mike knew Bino had ties to Vincent Domenico, and that’s where he had started the undercover investigation, now two months old.
He’d cruised into town in his pickup, camping trailer in tow, with nothing more than a deer rifle hanging in the back window and a fictitious dream of opening a body shop.
Without Bino’s help, Mike, putting his plan into action, had hired his first employee, Jimmy, from the city’s top competitor–Vinnie Domenico. Jimmy was an exceptional painter, but didn’t know enough– or wouldn’t say much–about Vinnie’s operation. He did manage, however, to steal Vinnie’s biggest account, an account that had moved on when Jimmy disappeared. The agency knew stolen cars from Vegas were showing up in various parts around the country. They also were aware that several illegal activities had ceased operating back in New Jersey about the same time Domenico had vacated the state.
Through the glasses, Mike spied a clean cut man in his early 20s park an almost-new Chrysler 300, with dealer plates, alongside the GTO. The only other interruption to the easygoing conversation Mitch and Janice were having was a customer who’d dropped by a brown manila envelope with the word “mail”scribbled across the front. Mitch excused himself and stepped toward his car.
“This must be the car Bino tol’ me ‘bout,” the man said in a Latino accent. “I’m Jose Vasquez. It’s nice, like he tol’me it would be.” He extended his hand. Gold rings adorned his fingers, manicured appendages attached to a wrist draped in an expensive watch. He was well-dressed, wore a tie, and seemed sincere.
Vasquez pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Mitch. At the top was the local Chrysler dealership’s logo, followed by the name Jose Vasquez and the title “Used Car Sales Manager” printed underneath. “I’d like to take it back to the dealership–have one of the mechanics look at it, if you don’ mind.”
Mitch recoiled at the thought.
“If it makes you uncomfortable,” Vasquez continued, “you can come with me. . . . Better yet, I’ll leave the keys to my car here for you.” He tossed the keys to the Chrysler at Mitch. “I’ll be back in a half-hour. If I want to buy it, can you produce the title?”
Mitch reached in his pocket and brought out the keys to the GTO. “It’s free and clear. The title’s at home.”
“Good. If it’s as sound as it looks, we’ll go to the bank.”
“Be careful–I’ve got a lot of work in it.”
“Don’ worry, I’ll treat it like my own.”
A hollow sensation gnawed at the pit of Mitch’s stomach as he watched his prized car pull from the station and head off down the street. Mike followed at a safe distance.