Security eligibility. He wore what looked like army issue eyeglasses with the thin metal wings bent into dips and rises, and grease-covered work clothes. Wiping his hands on a small towel looped through his belt, he said, “Afternoon.”
“Afternoon.” Extending the twenties, Parker said, “I’m not sure it’ll take that much. If not, I’ll come back for change.”
It was clear that Hopwood wasn’t happy about that; two exchanges with a customer over one transaction. Still, he took the twenties, put them on the shelf in front of the cash register, and said, “Which pump you at?”
Parker peered through the poster-blocked window: “Three.”
Hopwood bent behind the desk to set that pump and said, “I’ll ring it up when you’re done.”
“Fine.”
Hopwood was already on his way back to his work in the service area before Parker left the office. The man was without curiosity and would not be watching what Parker did, so he went first to the cars parked along the rear of the station blacktop. All were locked, their keys certainly on that rack in the office. A couple of them had personal items showing inside: a thermos, a blanket.
The law wanted people to keep their automobile registrations in their wallet or purse, but, in fact, most people leave it in the glove compartment with the insurance card, so at least some of these would be ready to go. If he needed one.
Parker went back to the Ford and pumped thirty-eight dollars and fifty cents’ worth of gas. The car would have taken more than that, particularly with the high price Hopwood charged, but he wanted that second encounter.
Back in the office, Hopwood came from his work in response to the bell, and Parker said, “Sorry, that’s all it took.”
“Not a problem.” Hopwood bent to see what the charge had come to.
“I’m staying with Tom Lindahl,” Parker said.
“Thirty-eight-fifty. I recognized the car.”
“On a little vacation.”
“That right?” Hopwood made the transaction in the cash register and handed Parker a dollar bill and two quarters.
Parker said, “It says you close today at four.”
“That’s right.” Squinting at the round white wall clock next to the service area entrance, Hopwood said, “You had plenty of time. An hour.”
“When you close,” Parker said, “is that it, you’re closed, nobody here in case somebody shows up a little late? Or do you stay and work on the cars a little more?”
“Not me,” Hopwood said, sounding almost outraged, as though somebody had asked him to lie under oath. “Four o’clock, I shut
“Tom said you were a good mechanic.”
“Well, thank him for me.” Nodding toward the Ford out by the pumps, he said, “I’ve managed to keep that thing going. Rides okay, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Parker agreed. He pocketed his change, said, “Enjoy the funnies,” and turned to leave.
11
Just a minute,” Hopwood said, and when Parker turned back, his hand not quite touching the doorknob, Hopwood had opened a drawer in his messy desk and now there was a tiny automatic pistol in his hand, its eye looking at Parker. Flat in the still-open drawer was a smudged copy of the artist’s rendering.
“Maybe you’ll put your hands on your head,” Hopwood said.
Parker didn’t. Instead, he gestured toward the picture in the drawer. “You don’t think that’s me, do you? This isn’t even a joke any more.”
“I’m not foolin, mister,” Hopwood said. The automatic that almost disappeared inside his fist was small but serious, the Seecamp LWS32, with a magazine of six .32-caliber cartridges. With its one-inch barrel, it couldn’t have much effect across a highway, but inside this room it would do the job.
Now Hopwood moved the gun-holding hand in a small arc, downward and to the right, to aim at Parker’s left leg. “If I have to wing you, I will.”
“I told you,” Parker said, “I’m staying with Tom Lindahl. Call him if you want. That’s his car right—”
“Last chance. Hands on top of your head.”
With no choice, Parker started to lift his arms when the door directly behind him opened and somebody walked in. Hopwood lost his concentration as Parker took a quick step to his left, turning to see that the newcomer was the nosy woman who’d driven past him last night and stopped to ask him if she could help.
She was confused by the scene she’d walked into, reacting to the tension in the air but not yet noticing the small automatic closed in Hopwood’s fist. “I’m sorry, did I—”
With both hands, Parker took her by the left elbow, spun, and threw her hard across the room and into Hopwood, who tried too late to backtrack out of the way, hitting the corner of his desk instead, knocking himself off balance. Then the woman crashed into him, and they fell diagonally in a jumble from the desk onto the floor. By the time they were separated and turned around and staring upward, Parker’s pistol was in his hand.
