The car rocked as she stepped out; the suspension complaining at the large shift in weight.
She took note of the flaking paint along the open door as she walked into the cramped office.
Pinup calendars lined the walls around the desk, some as old as twenty years, flipped open to the month of choice, each with half a dozen sticky notes posted all over. She averted her eyes after reading the first one. A pot of stale coffee sat on a beaten folding table that had to be at least as old as the calendars. A single, grungy Styrofoam cup sat beside it. Several flies that had taken advantage of the open door flocked towards it, playing gleefully in the dinge of sugar and sweetener on the table.
A grey man (not just in hair, but in skin!) sat behind the counter, absently reading a two-day-old newspaper, the kind that was usually lying around a service station for waiting customers.
“’Scuse me,” Sandy said, softly at first.
The man continued reading.
“’Scuse me!” She wagered that if she looked like one of the pinup girls on the calendars he would have put down the paper as soon as she walked in the door.
The man motioned to the bell on the counter with a nod of his head.
Disgusted, Sandy tapped on the bell and at the dull thudding ring the man raised his head from the paper, folded it neatly and stood up from the chair.
“Can I help you?”
She exhaled, making sure to record the man’s reaction as she spoke.
“I’m lookin’ for a package from...”
"From who?"
"Uh," she stumbled for a moment. "I don't know his name."
"Then you got yourself a problem." The man picked his newspaper back up.
"Uh, squirrely looking guy."
"Lady, tha's half the people who come in here."
"And the other half?"
"You the other half."
Sandy bit her lip and wrung her hands to keep from reaching over the counter and shoving the newspaper up his nose.
"He was a kid, maybe six foot and a little bit. Biggish nose. Oh, would likely be muttering about something."
"The weird Ichabod Crane lookin' kid? Yeah, he left something here." The wrinkling face twisted up into a scowl and turned down to the desk as Sandy marvelled that he would know who Ichabod Crane was. His hands rummaged through a few papers and receipts that littered the office. Two more calendars made an appearance before disappearing into the mess again. The newspaper was cast to the floor as he pulled a thin white envelope from a box covered with debris.
Sandy's heart fluttered for a moment at the thought that there might be eight hundred dollars inside that envelope. It fluttered twice more on the thought that it, and the two hundred she had already spent might have been stolen in some kind of bank heist.
Most likely, it was drugs. Most of the local money was.
The man behind the counter passed the envelope and immediately picked up the phone, dialing a three-digit number.
“What are you doing?” Sandy asked, her voice cracking a little.
The man rolled his eyes up at her. “He tol’ me to let ‘im know when someone picked up the envelope. So that’s what I’m doin’.”
“Oh.” The blood in Sandy’s veins turned to ice and her leg started twitching, sending a ripple up the flesh of her right side. She turned with surprising agility for someone of her size and slipped toward the door as the desk clerk began to speak into the receiver. Before he could object she had waddle through the door and into the heat outside.
She was halfway to her car when one of the room doors facing the parking lot opened and the man hobbled out. He was twisting his foot, trying to wedge it into a shoe. His hands were groping at a collection of notebooks, trying to keep them from falling. He had the look of a high-school student who was late for gym class.
Sandy began to walk faster, painfully aware of the rippling sensation the faster movement produced over her body. But it seemed now more important to escape this 'weird Ichabod Crane mother' than it was to save any face.
She managed to slip the key into the old door lock on the driver’s side when he called out.
“Hey! Wait!”
The suspension again groaned as she wedged herself in behind the steering wheel and shoved the key in the ignition. His hand came down on the roof of the car with a bang and Sandy felt a sharp pang of anxiety. She tried to pull the door closed behind her, but his long arm reached out and stopped it. She pulled harder, overcoming her fear of crushing his fingers. He held fast.
The spinning of the wheels on gravel muted the roar of the engine and the grinding of the gears as the car flew into reverse. His hand came away from the door in time to keep from being ripped off. Ichabod was left standing with his arm outstretched and his mouth hanging open as the Buick accelerated toward the main road. It had closed half the distance to the turn when, with a loud cough, a splutter of the engine and the sudden fearful gaffe of the wheels, there was a stop in forward momentum. The car slowed and then, with the anticlimactic grinding of the gravel, came to a complete stop.
He was marching towards her as she frantically turned the key in the ignition, begging the car to start. He grabbed the door, swung it open and she screamed.
“Look!” he hissed, voice sounding more annoyed than malevolent. “I just want to talk to you.”
“I’ll call the police,” she threatened with a tone that sounded none-too-threatening.
He yanked the white envelope out of
