EEPING AN EYE ON THE STATION from across the street seemed like the right thing to do. Mitch reached down by the floor in front of him, felt for the lever, and forced the Escort’s bucket seat into a reclining position. He weighed how best to approach Janice about the earlier mix-up and wondered how loyal she would be to Bino.
A city bus pulled to the curb between the Escort and the Husky station, blocking his view. A ragged man stepped from the open door, clutching in his hand a manila envelope. He paused at the curb and glanced around. Mitch looked away in hopes the man wouldn’t hit him up for a handout. Three lousy dollars was all that was left in his wallet.
From the corner of his eye Mitch saw the man maneuver himself across the busy street and stop at the pay booth, where Janice slid open the glass window. She gave a nod, then pointed below and tried to wave the man away. Stooping low, the indigent fellow opened the mail drop and deposited the envelope.
Mitch sat up, taking notice of the strange episode, and watched the man stagger back across the traffic and take a seat on the bus-stop bench less than 30 feet away.
The station hadn’t had a single paying customer in the 20 minutes Mitch had been there. He raised the seat back up, pulled across the street to the station, pumped three dollars of gas into his tank and approached the window.
“Hi, Mitch,” Janice sputtered, red-faced. “I’m so sorry about your car. Did you find it?”
“Nah, it’s long gone. . . .” He pushed the crumpled bills across the counter. “Sorry about the small purchase. I was counting on the sale of the car to help . . .” His voice trailed off.
A wave of despair swept across the woman’s face like a scorching desert wind. “Bino’s been telling me I’m getting forgetful.” Her jowls drooped like melted wax.
Mitch felt guilty for turning up the heat, but he needed answers. And now was the time to start getting them. “Had you ever seen the guy before?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I saw him at all.”
“Yesterday when you left you were almost sure Bino had told you to let the guy take my car.”
“Unless I’m losing my mind, I’d still swear to it.” She turned to watch a beat-up, lime-green Ford sedan full of rowdies squeal into the station on thread bare tires. The passenger door swung open and slammed against the hinges even before the vehicle came to a stop.
Mitch and Janice looked on as a large girl in her late teens, wearing a tight, low-cut tank-top and revealing shorts, struggled to climb off the lap of the male passenger in the front seat. She kicked an empty beer can from the cluttered floor, landed on the concrete with one foot, and hopped from the car, screaming. Her body jiggled as she spun around to swat at the retracting arm of the male passenger. In doing so, the manila envelope she held in her hand grazed the man’s cheek. Probably in his mid-twenties, he tilted his head back in a cynical laugh, seen but unheard over the pounding beat of the vibrating music that rattled the vehicle.
The woman promenaded over to where Mitch was standing, waving her wide hips with a sexual flourish at the carload of single-minded men. Mitch, not about to stand in her way, gave her a wide berth. She bent over at the mail drop beneath the teller window and peered back between her thick arm and heavy breasts to see if the men were still watching. Then, as her finale, she recklessly jammed the envelope into the opening.
Mitch observed the faces of the men as the woman waltzed back to the car and precariously climbed into the back seat, lounging among the outstretched tentacles of her waiting male harem. One of the men kept his face conspicuously obscured by the center post between the car windows. Mitch stepped to one side. Against the glare of the setting sun glancing through the back window, he could clearly see Andy Kostecki among the car’s occupants. Then the roudy vehicle lurched from the station.
“What was that all about?” Mitch asked as the beer can, driven by the undying desert breeze, rolled across the concrete and came to a stop next to his shoe.
“It’s the same every Friday night. They pay their bills using the drop.”
Mitch lifted his foot and stomped the aluminum cylinder flat. “They’re actual paying customers?”
“I guess so.”
“You’ve seen ‘em buy gas?”
“I’m not sure–I only work part-time. . . .”
Mitch bent down as he spoke, freed the envelope from its jammed position in the mail drop, and artfully slid it up the side of his pant leg, simultaneously retrieving the flattened can and depositing it in the nearby receptacle. From her perch, Janice was completely unaware of what he’d done. “Something’s outta place here,” he mused, half to himself. “I know one of the passengers in that car, a big-time loser. Hasn’t worked an honest day in his life.”
“I’ve often thought things seemed odd myself. I keep my mouth shut, though, ‘cause I need the extra income. Please don’t say anything to Bino.”
“I won’t say a word. . . . Can I ask one more question?”
“Sure.”
“Where does he get all the hot stuff he sells?”
“That! He’s a big bag of wind. Says the kids buy the close-out junk better if they think it’s stolen. The police have come plenty of times over the years asking for his proof-of-purchase. He thinks it’s a game. Uh, speaking of the bag of wind . . .” Both turned to see Bino’s Audi wheeze into the station. “He always locks up on Friday nights. Not a word now–you promised.”
“Yep.”
Bino wrestled with his oxygen, dragging it to the booth. “Any luck with the goat?” he huffed.
“The real Jose Vasquez is five-foot-six, three-hundred-fifty pounds. Got set-up, just like me.”
Janice gathered her things and made for the door. “G’night, boys. I’m going home before it gets dark. Sorry again, Mitch, for being so forgetful.”
Mitch sought to turn off the heat before she went home. “It’s not your fault. He probably would have gotten it anyway.”
“What do you mean . . . ‘set-up’?” Bino plopped down in his swivel chair and leaned forward wearily to rest his elbows on the desk–and to light up a new smoke. He adjusted a brass frame that sat on the desk. “My daughter–12 next week.”
“She’s a pretty girl.”
“Takes after her mother. . . . Shame neither one of them like me much.” Bino fiddled with the valve on his tank.
“You supposed to smoke around oxygen?”
“Why not. . . . It ain’t blown up yet. ‘Sides, if it did . . . it might do me a favor. Now tell me . . . about the set-up.”
Mitch let out a sigh. “He started making calls to the dealer days before he ripped off the 300, just to convince me he was legit. I fell for it hook, line and sinker.”
“I warned Janice . . . not to let him take it. Something didn’t feel right. Did you call the cops?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ve got a friend . . .”
“No.” Mitch didn’t need any more of Bino’s friends. “I’ve got to think this thing through.”
“Your car. . . .” The tension was as thick as the haze that hovered inside the small room. “Driving the wife’s car, I see,” said Bino, finally.
“I put my last three bucks of gas in it.”
“The guy that owns this place . . . he’s a banker of sorts–”
“I don’t know how he stays in business,” Mitch interrupted with a smirk. “I’ve been the only paying customer here in the last 30 minutes.”
“My point exactly. . . . He bought the place . . . a year ago because . . . the owners were upside-down.” Bino drew a long drag on the glowing stick, let out a hard cough, yet another, and plowed on. “The place is . . . scheduled to be demolished . . . this fall. New . . . fuel tank regulations.” The coughing fit resumed, the color flushing into Bino’s face.
“You okay?”
Bino, ignoring the question, rolled the near-spent cigarette in the ashtray and wiped the moisture from his bloodshot eyes. “What I’m trying . . . to tell you is he’ll loan you . . . a few bucks if you need it. I know . . . you were counting on the . . . the sale to take care of things.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll go see my grandpa this weekend. He’ll usually help me out.”
“Whatever. It’s here . . . if ya need it.” Bino crushed the cigarette butt in the tray Janice had emptied, shook another from the pack, and eased it between his lips.
Mitch leaned his elbows on the counter. It was now or never. He spoke abruptly. “It might be a few days before I pay you. Do you want me to leave it in the mail drop if you’re not here?”
Bino’s poker face gave up the game as he pivoted sharply, let the unlit cigarette fall from his lips, and fumbled for an answer. “My good customers . . . pay in person. . . . Uh, by the way, Vinnie . . . told me he offered you . . . a job. . . .” Bino had faltered trying to change the subject. Bino was in on the racket–Mitch knew it, and Bino knew he knew it. The pathetic man was trying to blow smoke and mirrors at the lost hand.
“He’s a wise-guy. Tell him to ask Mike–he’s looking.”
“I’ll do that.”
Mitch had been betrayed. Now he fixed his stare on the traitor. “I’ll find my car, you know,” he said before turning to leave.
Once the Escort’s shrill whine had faded into the night, Bino hung his head and struck a match. He spoke softly to himself. “Sorry, kid. . . . I hope you do.” Hesitating, he shook out the match, pulled the cigarette from his lips with his nicotine-stained thumb and forefinger, and heaved out a shallow breath.
Mitch drove half a block to the grocery store and pulled next to the phone booth. He extracted the envelope from his pant leg to examine its contents. A blank credit card application and a voucher slip with a four-digit number was all that was inside. Mitch placed a fingertip to his forehead. What was going on? He read the address on the application. It was only three blocks from his own home.
Scrounging through the ash tray, Mitch dug out enough change to call Stephanie. She had almost learned to tolerate his late hours without complaint. Her visits to the rest home had softened the late hours Mitch worked. He’d never outright lied to her. And this “delayed truth,” he rationalized, would be no different. She didn’t need to worry. Besides, she’d never understand the story behind the stolen GTO and his reasons for spying on Bino. Repairing her car for a few more hours seemed to be a much better excuse.
“It’s alright,” Stephanie replied. “Anyway, we’ll be at Heritage Care until after ten.”
Mitch checked his watch and shook his head. It seemed like they were drifting further and further apart. She was finding ways to be less dependent on him all the time, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. “Well, Maggie’ll be here in a minute, so I’ll see you later.”
“I’ll see you at home,” he said coolly. “Have a good time.”
Stephanie sensed the tautness behind her husband’s response. He’d never said so, but it bugged him that she found such joy in serving others. “Maggie just honked–I’ve got to go. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” The words rang guilt in his thoughts. He hung up the phone.
Mitch left the car and proceeded on foot across the parking lot leading back to the Husky station. It didn’t take much effort to scale the chain-link fence that ran along the rear. He crept through the lowgrown weeds that had sprung up between the oil-stained gravel, until he came to a small abandoned lot behind the fuel tanks–once used to sell bulk fuel. The station’s fluorescent lights shown in stark contrast against the gloomy sky. The place was a dump. It didn’t even sell candy bars, let alone groceries or fast food.
As he wove between the tanks, Mitch noticed someone else parked at the station. Just as before, the driver got out and shoved an envelope through the drop. The only logical answer to the stolen credit applications was stolen credit–something Mitch had heard of but knew virtually nothing about.