“I’m alive,” the guy said. “And I’ve got five bucks. Sometimes when you don’t expect it, life is good for a few hours.”
“Amen,” I said.
“Wait” he said as I turned to walk toward Lorna’s address. “I know you.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Your name’s Peters,” he said. “Before I lost touch, I worked at Santiago’s gas station in Encino.”
“Farkas?” I asked. “I was thinking about you the other day.”
“Small world,” he said, looking up at the sky. “Few minutes ago I see Samson and now you. Remember Santiago?”
I remembered him but I didn’t want to think about it now. I’d picked up a few dollars riding shotgun at Santiago’s Shell Station in Encino. Things were relatively quiet on the ten-to-midnight shift one night. A fat couple walking down the street pushing a grocery cart they’d stolen from Ralph’s started to fight about who-knows-what. I watched them as I sat sipping Pepsi on a rickety lawn chair in front of Santiago’s station, listening to “Amos ‘n’ Andy” on the radio while a wiry ex-con named Snick Farkas pumped gas. Farkas was the guy who loved classical music. Said he’d memorized twenty operas in prison. Volunteered to sing them to anyone who would listen. No one would listen.
Santiago, who was over seventy and had a bad leg, had once taken a few shots at a kid who had pulled the gas-stealing trick twice. The shots had taken out windows in the stores across the street and almost hit an alderman named Blankenship, who was walking down the street with a woman he later claimed was his cousin but who everyone knew was a prostitute from San Diego. Santiago decided to call it quits, but his brother, a junior partner in the station, had talked him into trying again. Santiago had grumbled but decided to make the final try.
But things got worse. There was an increase in hold-ups of the station by frustrated kids, pre-Zoot-suiters who counted on free gas from Santiago. There had been four hold-ups in one month, all on the night shift when Santiago wasn’t there. That was when I had been hired.
The first week I was on the job Santiago insisted on hiding inside the station with his shotgun. He looked like a grizzled Mexican Gabby Hayes, right down to the game leg. His greasy Shell baseball cap cut into the illusion but didn’t kill it. Farkas pumped gas, his hooded eyes revealing nothing. I sat in the lawn chair, wearing my.38 and a gray sweatshirt over my not-so-good jeans.
About eleven that night a car full of kids pulled into the station in a 1933 Chevy. Two boys no older than fifteen got out of the car. A girl in the back seat was laughing and holding her sides. One of the boys, who was holding a sawed-off rifle, told her to shut up.
Farkas stood calmly, wiping oil from his hands. Later he told me that he was one-quarter Apache and his grandfather had taught him that he was part of the Great Oneness and would join it one day. Farkas had led a wild life before the truth of his grandfather’s words hit him, but once they did, he began to prepare himself for the Great Oneness. The night those two boys came out of the car seemed, to Farkas, a decent enough night to die.
Before either boy could say anything, Santiago, standing inside the station, blew out his own front window with a blast that rained glass on me, Farkas, the Chevy, and the robbers.
“Loco shit!” the kid with the rifle had said, ducking behind the car.
The other kid-skinny, with the eyes of someone who loved the Lady of White Powder-blinked. His cheek was bleeding from flying glass. The butt of a pistol showed from his pocket, but he didn’t reach for it.
My.38 was out before the shards had stopped raining on the gas pumps. The girl in the car wasn’t laughing anymore. The kid behind the car with the shotgun was cursing. The skinny kid in front of the car stood stunned and looked at Farkas. I looked at Farkas, too, as I held my gun on the kid. Farkas smiled a smile that said “Give it up” and I could see that the kid was giving it up, but Santiago came hobbling through his broken window. The kid with the shotgun stood up, aimed at no one in particular, and fired. The shot took out pump number two. Santiago was gurgling with joy as he fired in return, taking out the front window of the Chevy.
The kid with the shotgun jumped into the car, and I nodded at the skinny kid to climb in with him. As he reached for the rear door, the girl inside screamed and the car burned rubber and took off. The skinny kid stood wide-eyed in the driveway of Santiago’s station and watched his partner drive off. Santiago chortled with pleasure and aimed at the kid.
“Go for your gun,
The dazed skinny kid looked at the mad old man in the Shell baseball cap and started to reach for the gun in his pocket.
“Hold it,” I shouted and the kid stopped.
Santiago cursed.
“I want to kill somebody,” the old man hissed. “I am unfulfilled.”
“Go home and play with yourself,” I said. To the kid I said, “Take off.”
The skinny kid scuttled off in the same direction his friend had driven.
I remembered that night, all right. I had made the mistake of telling Anne about it. I’d come home on top of the world and twenty bucks richer, ready to buy her flowers and a damn-the-Depression dinner at Chasen’s. I told her the story and she packed and said it was the end.
“I remember, Farkas,” I said. “Thanks for the memory. If the cops show up and you’re still sitting here, send them up to apartment six-D. Got it?”
“Got it,” he said, holding up the five. “They’re doin’ an opera somewhere near here sometime soon. Maybe I can find it and buy a ticket. Today’s my lucky day. Come back any time and run me over. We’ll talk about old times.”
“Old times,” I said, thinking of Anne.
I looked up at Lorna Bartholomew’s building. It was a six-story, trying to bring up the neighborhood and failing.
I stepped into the lobby foyer. An old man in a ratty gray sweater and a little badge sat on a bridge chair reading the latest issue of
“Pardon me,” I said.
He looked up.
“Bob La Follette’s worrying about prohibition making a comeback,” he said, pointing to the article on his lap. “Can you imagine with what’s going on in the world someone worrying about people drinking?”
“No,” I said. “I’d like to see Miss Bartholomew.”
“Name?” he asked.
“Peters.”
The old man nodded. I looked out into the street. No cops yet Farkas was sitting there admiring the five I had given him and remembering the good old days in Los Angeles.
“First name?”
“Toby.”
“Check,” he said, and picked up the house phone. “Peters here.”
He hung up, reached under the wooden counter, and the inner lobby door clicked open.
“Six-D,” he said. “She said you can come on up.” The old man sank back in his seat with his magazine.
The lobby was full of glass and mirror, with a cracked white tile floor. No people. The inner lobby door clicked closed behind me, and I headed for the elevator. It was waiting and open. I got in and pushed six, thinking the place was a lot like the one Anne had moved into after walking out on me.
When the elevator opened, I thought I heard a door close, but no one was in the hallway. Six-D was halfway down the corridor to my left. All the doors I passed were the same except for 6-D, which was open. I hoped Lorna had simply opened it when the old doorman called, but she wasn’t standing just inside waiting for me. I expected Miguelito to come yapping out of the shadows and go for my throat, but there was nothing.
“Lorna?” I called, stepping into darkness.
My foot hit something that went skittering across the floor.
I pulled out my:38 and got out of the light from the door.
“Lorna?” I called out again, more softly.
There was no answer. I reached for a light switch on the wall against which I was leaning, found none, and moved back to the open apartment door, there I found a switch, hit it, and turned, gun leveled into the room.
