While You Were Out

WHILE YOU WERE OUT

    “O heavenly Jay-sus!” bellowed the Reverend Duke Looter.  “You are trespassing on a messenger of the Lord!  And when you interfere with the spread of Gospel, you affront God Himself!  And the sweet, merciful Jay-sus will cast you down, down into the bowels of Hell eternal!”
    “That may be, padre,” admitted Clarence Mack, head mechanic for the Pitt Stop.  “But your brakes still won’t be fixed until next Thursday.”
    “Oh, please?”  The 56-year-old, short, balding reverend, abruptly changing tactics.  “I really need it to get to the church tonight.  We’re having a poker game in the basement.”
    “You’re gambling in the church basement?” the burly, greasy mechanic said with blatant disgust.  “Why didn’t you invite me?”
    “Well,... you cheat,” said Duke, as if the answer were obvious. 
    “Right.  And how did you wind up with that fifth ace last time, padre?”
    “It was a miracle!”  said Duke, casting an awed expression skyward.  “From the sweet mighty Jay-sus!”
    “Then get the mighty Jay-sus to fix your brakes,” Clarence barked.  “Look, padre, this is a really bad time.  Our Russian guy called in sick”—Clarence referred to Victor Yasnovich, who was, in fact, Czechoslovakian—“and Frank is flying to Miami this afternoon, which means I have to take over his managerial duties.  Times are tough.”
    “Speaking of tough times,” Duke began cautiously, “I don’t suppose you could see your way to lending the Lord’s messenger $500?”
    Clarence laughed contemptuously.  “Keep praying, padre!  Why don’t you just raid your collection plate at church?”
    “Are you demented?” Duke snapped back.  “I only get about fifty bucks from there!  Sixty, tops.”
    “It’s God’s will,” said Clarence, gesturing skyward before he turned away, walking out of the garage and into a small hallway that led to the Pitt Stop cashier’s station.  There sat Dave Nixon, the blond-haired, blue-eyed resident college student, his feet propped up on the counter.  He spotted the reverend following Clarence. 
    “Hey, Rev,” Dave greeted him.  “What’s the word?”
    Duke smiled.  “The word is ‘charity,’” he said.  “And I’m sure a noble soul like yours is charitable enough to lend this humble Lord’s servant—oh, let’s a paltry $500.”
    “Aside from the sheer pleasure of committing usury,” said Dave, “what would be in it for me?”
    Duke leaned in closer.  “Let’s face it, son: We both know you’re going to Hell.  Lend me some dough and maybe I can talk to God into knocking off a few centuries.”
    “Come on, Reverend,” said Dave.  “If I’m going to Hell, we both know you’ll be sitting next to me, tipping the stripper.”
    Duke’s reply was interrupted by the entrance of Frank Johnson, the slender, bespectacled, effete manager of the garage and gas station.  His pale skin reddened slightly as he stepped out of his office and spotted Revered Looter.
    “Mr. Johnson—!” Duke began.
    “Forget it, Duke,” Frank said.  “I’ve donated enough money to your poker ‘charities.’”
    “Aren’t you gone yet?” Clarence asked Frank.
      “Don’t worry, Clarence,” Frank assured him.  “We’ll both be glad when I’m on that plane to Miami.”  He removed a plane ticket from his jacket pocket and looked at it longingly.  “Oh, sure,” he said dreamily, “I could just cash in this easily refundable $500 ticket and blow it all right here in town.”  He waved the ticket carelessly in his hand.  As he did so, Duke’s eyes darted about, following the movement of the $500 ticket like a cat watching string.  “But no,” Frank went on, pocketing the ticket back in his pocket.  “I’ve waited too long for this vacation.”
    Duke blinked when the ticket was out of sight.  Then he walked to a telephone in the corner of the shop.           
    “You just have a good time, Frank,” Clarence told him.  “Don’t worry about he garage; it’ll run better than ever while you are gone.”
    “I’m sure of that,” Frank agreed, to Clarence’s surprise.  “Especially since I left Terri in charge.”
    “You what?!”  Clarence’s response was as fast and furious as Frank anticipated.  “I’m the senior mechanic!  You supposed to leave me in charge!”
    At first, Frank just chuckled.  But it grew into a guffaw, and then into a full belly-laugh.  Soon he was convulsing hysterically, tears edging from his eyes.  He stopped abruptly: “No.”
Dave, whose only response to the exchange was to arch an eyebrow, finally chimed in.  “Frank, are you sure you’re looking at this objectively?  I mean, you are in love with Terri.”
    Frank frowned at the voicing aloud of the poorly held secret.  “Yes, I am,” he said bluntly.  “But she’s also the best mechanic and the only one here who isn’t a cheat or slack-off.”
    “Which one are you, Frank?” Clarence asked.
    Frank shot him a cold look but otherwise ignored the question.  “Anyway,” he went on, “I know exactly what would happen if I left you in charge.  You’d knock off 3:15 and go bar-hopping.”
    “That’s ridiculous!” said Clarence.  “Bars don’t open until five!”
    “And this shop doesn’t close until seven!” Frank reminded him and then turned toward Dave.  “And that doesn’t mean putting up the ‘closed’ sign and reading a book for two hours!”
    Dave only shrugged.          
    Duke returned from the telephone.  “My cab’s coming, so I’ll be on my way.”
    Frank grunted.  “Don’t let the door hit you in the—”  Frank was interrupted when Duke walked straight into him, knocking him back a step.  “What the hell is wrong with you, Duke?  It’s only ten o’clock; are you drunk already?”
    “No,” said Duke, turning sideways from Frank as he put his hand in his pocket.  “Not yet, anyways.”
    Frank shook his head exasperatedly as he watched Duke go.  “Thank God I’m atheist,” he said to no one in particular before returning his attention to his historically shiftless employees.  “I’m serious, fellas: You’re both staying here—working—until seven.”  He patted his coat pocket.  “Well, I got my ticket, and my bags are packed.  I’ll see you both in ten days.”
    “Provided, of course,” said Clarence, “you don’t crash into a mountain.”
    “Don’t expect a postcard, Clarence,” said Frank.  “Just make sure you treat Terri with the same respect—make that more respect—than you do with me.”
    Dave’s head perked up.  “Does any respect qualify as ‘more’?”
    “I will miss neither of you,” Frank said matter-of-factly and left without another word.
    Dave waited until Frank was in his car before asking Clarence, “Do you think we should have told him that Duke stole his plane ticket?”
    “I ain’t his mommy,” Clarence answered, turning back toward the garage.  He stopped when he almost bumped into Terri Cavanaugh, the lovely, dark-skinned, four-eyed brunette, as she came in from the garage.  Clarence’s contempt for the bright, friendly junior mechanic was almost as strong as Frank’s impotent affection for her.  “Speaking of mommies...”
    “Bad news, boys,” Terri announced.  “Frank left me in charge, and I’m implementing a new policy affective immediately:  You have to work in order to get paid.”
    Dave spun around to face Clarence.  “Hold me, Clarence.  I’m frightened.”
    “Look, honey,” Clarence said, moving his bulky, unwashed frame closer to her, “if it’s all right with you—and even if it isn’t—Dave and I are knocking off early tonight.”
    Terri held up a clipboard she was carrying and extracted a note from it.  “No, you’re not.  Frank left me very explicit instructions.”
    “Yeah?  Well, we spoke to him before he left, and he said he changed his mind.”
    Terri read directly from the note: “‘If Clarence tells you I changed my mind, he’s lying.’”
    “Too bad.  I’m leaving anyway.”
    Terri read further: “‘And if he says he’s leaving anyway, fire him on he spot.’”
    Dave arched an eyebrow.  “You have to admit, Clarence: Those instructions are explicit.”
    Clarence brushed the issue away.  “Frank doesn’t have the guts to fire me.”
    “Oh, but I do—honey,” Terri added menacingly.  “Now get to work.  You can start with the Porsche.  And no joy riding.”  She turned away and entered the office that Frank usually occupied.
    Dave sat up at the mention of the word Porsche.  “Porsche?  Did she say ‘Porsche’ and ‘joy riding’ in the same sentence?  I believe she did!”  He jumped up from behind the counter and brushed past Clarence on his way to the garage.  Clarence calmly followed and watched Dave prance around the silver Porsche parked on the far side of the room.  The display was the closest thing to emotion that Clarence had ever seen Dave perform.  “Holy crap,” Dave said admiringly.  “It’s perfect!”
    “With the exception that it doesn’t run,” Clarence pointed out.  “It has a defective vacuum hose.”
    Dave shrugged.  “That’s ten-minute job at best.  Then let’s test-drive this baby!”
    “Nobody is going anywhere in that car.  We’re just going to fix it and park it in the lot.”
    Dave chuckled.  “Right, right.”
    “I’m serious.”
    Dave looked at him blankly when he realized Clarence was, in fact, serious.  “I’d almost think you were sick, if I thought scruples was a disease.”
    “Sure sounds like one, doesn’t it? But no, I haven’t gone all”—he spat out the word—“ethical or anything.  It would just be wrong to take this customer’s car for an unauthorized joyride, that’s all.”
    Dave glanced in the direction of Frank’s—now Terri’s—office.  “I get it,” he said knowingly, and he made a whiplash sound and a jerking wrist movement. 
    “It’s not Terri I’m afraid of!”  Clarence snapped.  “I’m afraid of getting shot eighty-eight times in the chest and dumped in a river basin.”
    Dave paused.  “That sounds a little too extreme for Terri,” he said.  “Is it that time of the month?”
    “With Terri, it’s always that time of the month.  But for your information, that car belongs to Arnie Francesco.”
    Dave looked down at his hands, which were resting on the hood.  He pulled them away as if the car had become a hot stove.  “Arnie ‘The Arsenal’ Francesco?  The hit man?”
    “Alleged hit man,” Clarence stressed. 
    “Of the Francesco crime family?”
    “Alleged crime family.”
    “Isn’t he supposed to have killed thirteen people?”
    “Alleged people!”
    “Jesus Christ!  How did you get mixed up with him?”
    “I didn’t,” Clarence explained.  “Victor took the call last night.  The sheriff saw Arnie with his car broken down on Old Birch Road and called us because we were the closest shop that was still open.  Victor towed it in last night before going home sick.”
    Although Dave’s face returned to its usual expressionless mask, it was clear that gears were turning in his head.  “We’re kind of far from his usual stamping grounds, aren’t we?  And what’s out at Old Birch Road, except the marshes?  What was he doing out there, burying bodies?”
    Clarence cut the discussion short by slashing his hand through the air.  “Look, I don’t care what he was doing out there, and I don’t want to know!  Anyway, Victor was the one who spoke to him, and all he said was that we weren’t supposed to open the trunk because he had some sensitive photography equipment in there.”
    “Photography equipment?  And you believed that?”
    Clarence grit his teeth.  “It doesn’t matter what I believe.  What matters is that we do what we’re told so that we don’t die.”
    “Just hold on,”  Dave reasoned.  “Maybe he was out there to make some kind of secret deal.  If the sheriff is the one who came upon him, maybe Arnie didn’t complete the exchange.  And whatever he was going to sell or buy is still in the trunk.”
    “Like I said: It doesn’t matter.  I don’t want to know what’s in that trunk.  I don’t care if it is drugs, or guns, or bootlegged Neil Sedaka CDs.”
    “What if it’s a briefcase full of unmarked bills?”
    “Then we look but don’t touch.”
    Dave opened the driver door, extracted the keys from the ignition, and went back to the trunk.  Clarence stood next to him as he unlocked it.  “Remember,” Clarence said, “we’re just looking.  And if we find a dead body in there, so help me God—!”
    Dave lifted the trunk door.  “It’s a dead body.”
    “Help me, God!”
    Sure enough, lying in the trunk was a middle-aged man in a disheveled gray suit, his legs bent to fit into the compartment and one arm across his chest.  Although it wasn’t immediately obvious what killed him, he was most obviously dead.
    Clarence slapped Dave hard on his arm.  “You stupid, stupid bastard!  This is all your fault!”
    “What are you blaming me for?  I didn’t kill him.”
    “I was perfectly happy not knowing about this!  We did not see this, understand?  We’re going to close this trunk and pretend we never saw a thing!  We’re going to leave everything just as it is, so Arnie won’t suspect that—cripes, are those solid gold cufflinks?”  Clarence lifted the corpse’s arm to take a closer look.  “And look at that tie pin!  That’s gotta be worth a couple weeks’ salary.”  He began rummaging through the dead man’s suit.
    “Far be it for me to question the voice of reason here,” said Dave, “but aren’t you the one who said we shouldn’t touch anything?”
    “I’m just checking if the guy has ID on him.”
    “Uh-huh.  Is that why you pocketed his Rolex?”
    “It could be engraved,” Clarence explained defensively.
    “Is it?”
    “Is it what?”
    “Is it engraved?”
    Clarence shrugged. “I don’t know. Are you going to help me or not?” He searched the body’s suit pockets while Dave rifled through the pants pockets.  “But if we find any money, we split 50-50, right?”
    “Of course,” Dave agreed. 
    A moment later, Clarence extracted a wallet.  “Got his wallet!”
    “We split the cash 50-50,” Dave reminded him.           
    “I lied.  Finders keepers!”  He opened the wallet.  “Damn!  No cash.”
    “I know,” said Dave.  “It’s all on this money clip.”  He held up a wad of $100 bills held together by a clip he removed from the left pocket.
    Clarence lurched forward, but Dave, anticipating the assault, pulled the clip away and pocketed it into his overalls.  “Finders keepers.”
    Clarence grumbled an obscenity under his breath before turning back to the corpse. 
    “What are you guys doing?”  Terri asked.
    “Aaaah!”  The men yelped in surprise at the noise behind them, and they spun around, allowing a clear view of the inside of the trunk. 
    “Aaaah!”  Terri yelped, pointing at the corpse.  “That man’s dead!”
    Clarence removed his hand from his chest and sighed.  “Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman!”
    “Who is he?”
    “We don’t know,” Dave told her.  “Clarence hasn’t examined his Rolex yet.”
    “Okay, nobody panic,” Terri said, her voice trembling slightly.  “I’m going to call 911.  In the meantime, you guys are going to give me everything you looted from the body like the twisted, monstrous grave-robbers that you are.”
    “You realize,” said Dave, “that some might interpret that tone to be judgmental?”
    “Hand it over,” she said, her voice firm now.  “Everything.”
    Dave and Clarence looked at each other before grudgingly handing Terri the money clip, the wallet, the tie clip, and the cufflinks.
    She eyed the stash in her hands suspiciously.  “Everything,” she repeated.
    Clarence scowled before pulling a pen out of is pocket and adding it to the pile. 
    “You even took his pen?”  Dave asked.
    “I like the felt-tips,” he explained.  “Besides, he ain’t writing any more checks, trust me.”
    “I’ll call the police,” said Terri.  “You guys stay here and make sure he doesn’t, uh,  move.”
    “Where do you think he’s going?”  Dave asked.  “Shopping for a coffin?”
    Terri ignored him, already walking towards the supervisor’s office.  But Clarence ran ahead of her and blocked her exit from the garage.  “Whoa, sugar!  There’s no need to get the police involved.”
    Terri looked at him incredulously.  “You mean a dead body stuffed in a trunk doesn’t qualify?”
    “I’m saying there might be three more dead bodies if we try to report this.  That car belongs to a member of the Francesco family, and some of us prefer to be—oh, I don’t know—not dead!”
    “And exactly what are you proposing to do?”
    “I say we fix the car, call Arnie Francesco to pick it up, and we pretend we didn’t see a thing.”
    “A man is dead!  Are you saying we should be an accessories to murder?”
    “We’re not accessorizing!”  Clarence said.  Then he scrunched up his nose.  “Is that the right word?”  He shook his head before continuing:  “I’m not proposing that we help bury the body; I’m just saying we ignore it.  Besides, for all we know, maybe the guy had it coming!”
    “Even you don’t deserve to be murdered and stuffed into a trunk,” said Terri.
    Clarence was visibly taken aback.  “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
    “I’m calling the police.”  She stepped around him but he veered back in front of her.
    “I say we vote.”  Clarence raised his hand.  “All in favor of not calling the cops—!”
    “This is not a democracy,” said Terri, pulling his hand back down.  “Maybe Frank lets you guys get away with murder—so to speak—but as long as I’m in charge, there’s no way I’m going to let you be your usual cowardly, selfish self!”
    Dave approached Terri from behind.  “Here, Terri.  Smell this.”  Terri turned her head just in time to have Dave shove a handkerchief over her nose and mouth.  She had little time to protest before her eyes rolled back in their sockets and she dropped to the floor, unconscious before her head struck the concrete with a light thwop.
    Dave watched her hit the floor and then looked up at Clarence.  “Guess I should have told you to catch her.”
    “What the hell did you do to her?”
    Dave showed him the bottle in his other hand.  “Chloroform.”  He gestured to the Porsche.  The passenger door was open, and so was the glove compartment.
    Clarence furrowed his brow.  “How did you know Francesco had chloroform in his glove compartment?”
    Dave shrugged.  “Where else would he keep it?”
    Clarence’s eyes narrowed at Dave.  “Of course,” he said sarcastically.  “Where else?”
    He gave Terri a mild boot.  “What are we going to do with little Miss ‘I’m-in-charge-here’?”
    “I’ll prop her up in Frank’s office.  You get to work on that vacuum hose, so Arnie can pick it up and drive it outta of here before she wakes up.  Hopefully he’ll dump the body fast, and no one will be able to prove we saw a thing.  But, you realize, that means we’ll have to replace the dead guy’s wallet and cufflinks.  We don’t want the cops finding any of his personal items here.”
    “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Clarence admitted.  He thought moment.  “We’re keeping the money, though, right?”
    “Well, duh.”  After dividing the money from the money clip, Dave grabbed Terri by her underarms and dragged her limp body across the garage floor and back to the main station, heading for Frank’s office.
    Entering the station, Dave realized he wasn’t alone.  Standing at the counter was a young man who Dave had never seen before; but because of the sad, confused look on his face, it was obvious he was just another helpless customer.  “Excuse me,” said the man, “do you work here?  I want to pay for my gas.”
    “Oh, right. Coming.”  He dropped Terri abruptly and her head clunked to the floor as he made his way to the cash register.
    “Oooo!” said the customer.  “Is she all right?”
    “What are you, a cop?”
    The man made a chagrined face and plopped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.


Upon learning that his flight would be delayed yet another hour, Frank Johnson made his way to the airport bar and lounge.  It was sparsely populated at this hour—it was only about 4:30—with several widely spaced patrons who, like Frank, would be drinking alone.  The lone exception was a couple at the end of the bar.  A giggling woman in a tight black leather skirt was entertaining some fellow, whose face Frank couldn’t see, due to the woman’s enormous blond hairdo.
    Much more interesting to him was a pretty, short-haired brunette sitting alone with her eyes down at her empty glass.  He glanced around, looking for a man who may now be leaving the restroom to reclaim his girlfriend.  But no, she looked truly alone.  His skills with women were virtually nil, since the last girlfriend he had was in high school, an even then he didn’t get to second base.  Still, he knew he wouldn’t have another opportunity like this.  She was his type.  And she was alone.  And her glass was empty, which meant that she couldn’t throw her drink in his face. 
It also gave him an excuse to approach.  “I hate to use a line like this, Miss,” he said as he sat next to her, “but can I buy you a drink?”
    She turned her head but did not look at him.  “No,” she told his feet.  “But if you give me the money, I’ll make eye contact with you.”
    It wasn’t the rejection Frank had expected.  In fact, it was the nicest rejection he had ever gotten.  He plopped a five dollar bill down in front of her.
    She turned her head and looked into his eyes. 
    “Wow,” said Frank and shuddered.
    The woman collected the bill and turned her attention back to the bar. 
    “I hate to complain,” said Frank, who really did, “but I think your drink is only four dollars.”           
    She gave him another eye-matching glimpse.  “There’s your change.”
    “Thank you,” said Frank and genuinely meant it.  He got up to move to another seat when he heard a distinctive male voice emerge from behind the blond woman’s hair.
    “Oh heavenly Jay-sus!” the man bellowed.  “The sweet Lord has certainly blessed that bra!”
    Frank’s face contorted with disgust as he walked around the blond woman to see the puffy, balding, ribald reverend.  The smiling Reverend Looter only glanced at Frank before turning his attention back to the blonde.  But in a sudden double-take, the smile abruptly dropped from his face, and he spun back around to see Frank.  “Mr. Johnson!  W-what a surprise!”
“I’ll bet.”
    Duke gently pushed the blonde back.  “And remember, dear child,” he told her, “repent your licentious ways and you too can be embraced by the sweet savior Jay-sus!”
    “Just as long as he pays cash,” the woman chirped, and she turned to Frank.  “Hello,” she said warmly.
    “I’m broke,” he said, and the woman stopped smiling and walked away.  Frank scowled at the man of cloth.  “What the hell are you doing here?  Shouldn’t you be at the church selling seats in Heaven to old ladies that think they’re going to die soon?”
    “Oh, I, uh, always come to the airport!  What better place to find lost souls in need of guidance and the love of the benevolent Jay-sus?”  He gestured around the lounge, where solitary individuals stared vacantly at their tables as they drank the afternoon away. “Well, my work is done here,” Duke announced and swallowed down the rest of his drink.  He stood up and slapped Frank gently on the arm.  “Be seeing you, Mr. Johnson.”
    Frank smiled broadly.  “Oh, reverend, I sure hope not.”  He gave Duke a queer look as the reverend bounded out the door. He was not a great judge of character, but it seemed almost as if Duke were nervous about running into Frank. But why?  Surely Duke wasn’t concerned about what Frank thought of him. 
    Frank sat down and ordered himself a soda. It would not until well over an hour that his flight would finally be called, and he’d reach into his vest pocket to find it empty, his ticket gone without a trace. Only then would his exchange with Looter become a little clearer. 


“Okay,” said Clarence, returning to the garage. “I finished the Porsche and parked it in the lot.  Did you call Francesco?”
    “He’s coming at six,” said Dave.  “All we have to do is keep Terri sedated until he picks up his car.  Then the evidence will be gone, and it will be our word against Terri’s.”
    Clarence pursed his lips.  “But our word doesn’t mean squat.”
    “True. But like I said, it’ll be too late for her or Frank to do anything about it.”
    “How’s Terri doing, anyway?”
    “Let’s check.”  The two men went into Frank’s office.  Terri still lay slumped in the chair behind Frank’s desk.  As it was starting to get dark, Dave turned on the desk lamp before leaning closer to Terri to verify that she was still asleep.  He tapped her on the shoulder and said softly, “Terri?  You all right?”
    Terri’s eyes flickered, and she drew a deep breath as she partially sat up.  She rubbed her head and winced.  “Dave?  Where am I?  What happened?”
    “This happened,” said Clarence, before stepping forward and placing another chloroform-soaked rag around her nose and mouth.  Too weak to resist, Terri’s eyes rolled back again, and she returned to her slumped position in the chair.
Dave pointed to the bottle of chloroform.  “Do you think too much of that could give her brain damage?”
    Clarence looked down at Terri, a little bit of drool running down her chin.  Then he looked back at Dave, shrugged, and said, “Eh.”
    The two men left the office and returned to their posts, with Clarence relaxing in the garage and Dave relaxing by the cash register.  Dave spent much of the next hour reading, taking time out to be sarcastic a customer looking to pay for his gas.  Meanwhile, Clarence sat in the garage watching basketball on a portable television, taking an occasional break to repair a Ford Mercury that was supposed to have a new an alternator installed about four days earlier. 
    Nearly an hour later, Clarence’s laborious pace was interrupted when a taxi arrived at the station and Reverend Looter staggered into the garage.  He was holding a bottle of Jack Daniels, which wasn’t quite empty; but his drunken gait and slurred speech indicated that it perhaps wasn’t his first bottle.  “Clarence, my shon!” he spat out.  “Have you fixed the brakes on my car yet?” 
    Clarence didn’t even glance away from the television.  “Been busy.”
    “Good!” said Duke, and a surprised Clarence finally turned to look at him.  “I shust came from my poker game,” Duke explained, “and in twenty minutesh I lost $500 and my car!  So I figger—hey!  If I gotta give up my car, I sure as Hell ain’t paying to fix the brakes on it!”
    Clarence winced a little as Duke’s alcohol-tinged breath pelted his face.  “I can’t do that, padre.  Aside from the fact that the brakes are still shot, you smell as if Boris Yeltsin just threw up on you.”
    “Hey!  I—I’ll have you know that I drive better with a few drinksh in me.”
    “So by now, you must be another Richard Perry,” Clarence reasoned.  He reached in his pockets for the keys but found only the bottle of chloroform.  “Ah, crap.  I must have left the keys on Frank’s desk.”  He gestured to the office.  “Go ahead and pick them up.  Be careful not to wake up Terri.”  Duke began wobbling to the office.  As an afterthought, Clarence called after him: “And don’t feel her up, either!  Just because she’s drugged doesn’t mean it’s consensual!  I learned that the hard way.”  But Clarence was now speaking to an empty garage, as Duke was long gone.
    Duke, stumbling only a few times, found Frank’s office with the sleeping Terri, and illuminated by the small desk lamp were a couple sets of keys.  Curious, Duke leaned over Terri’s sleeping form.  “Itsh a little early for a nap, isn’t it, shweetheart?” he asked.  Terri didn’t respond.  “I mean, itsh only—what time is it?”  He looked at his left wrist but saw no watch.  He tilted his right arm to check the other wrist, pouring the remaining contents of the Jack Daniels bottle onto Terri’s coveralls.  “Oh!  Shorry, honey!” he said.  Terri rolled her head, moaned, then fell back to sleep.  Duke again tried checking his watch before recalling that he had lost it in the church basement poker game.  “Oh, yeah.  No more watsch.”  He finally made his way to the pile of keys on the desk.  He recognized dimly that one pair of keys belonged to his Toyota Corolla.  But another set, a shiny silvery set, caught his attention.  The silver keys caught the desk lamp’s glow in such a way as to suggest a heavenly beam had shone upon them.
    Duke set down the empty bottle and picked up the keys.  The keys were so silvery, so shiny.  Could these be the keys to that silver Porsche that he noticed in the garage parking lot?  Yes, he believed they were.  And their presence here as almost a sign.  Why should an agent of the Lord go back to driving a Toyota?  Maybe it was all a part of God’s plan.  Or it might be the booze talking.  There was only one way to find out. 
    “O heavenly Jay-sus!”  Duke called out to the ceiling.  “If you wish me to appropriate these keys that you have bleshed me with, give me a shign.”
    The room was silent.
    Duke frowned and tried again.  “O heavenly Jay-sus!  If you don’t want me to keep the Porsche, give me a shign.”
    Silence.
    “Speak up, now,” Duke urged.  The room declined. 
    “Thank you, Jay-sus!”  Duke staggered out leaving behind the keys to the Toyota, a slightly wetter Terri, and an empty Jack Daniels bottle on the desk. 


Although a relatively modest 5' 9", Arnold “The Arsenal” Francesco was an imposing figure.  His tan skin wrapped tightly around a sharp-edge jaw, his short black hair was slicked back to expose his menacing gray eyes and an immaculate dark blue suit hung upon his muscular frame.  His commanding gait attracted Clarence’s immediate attention, and the mechanic switched off the television.  “Mr. Francesco!  It’s an honor to meet you!”
    “Is my Porsche done?” Francesco asked bluntly. 
    “Fixed it myself, sir!  Works perfectly.”
    “It better.”  He gave Clarence a scrutinizing look.  “Did anyone mess with the trunk?” 
    “No!” Clarence answered, a bit too emphatically.  “Your cameras are safe.”
    “Cameras?”  Francesco repeated, then nodded.  “Oh, yeah, cameras.  How did you know there were cameras in the trunk?  Did you...look?”
    “No!” said Clarence, again too strongly.  “Victor, the guy who towed you, told us about the cameras.”
    “Oh, yeah,”  Francesco nodded.  “The Russian guy.”
    “Actually, I think he’s Czechoslovakian.”
    Francesco shot him a look. 
    Clarence threw up his hands.  “But then, who knows?”
    “So where’s my baby?”
    “It’s in the parking lot—”
    “Parking lot?  You left it outside?”  The brow above the menacing gray eyes furrowed with burgeoning anger.
    Clarence’s knees shook a little at Arnie’s withering look.  “It’s safe!  It’s safe!  No one comes to a garage like this to steal a car unless they’re looking for an old wreck to sell as scrap.  I can assure you that the car hasn’t been touched.”
    “You mean you didn’t fix it?”
    “I fixed it!  I just didn’t touch it.  I mean, I touched it when I fixed it, but then I didn’t touch it.”
    “All right,” said Arnie.  “Just get my car.”
    “I especially didn’t touch the trunk.”
    “Get my car!”
    “Right!” said Clarence, spinning around to leave.  “It’s coming!”  But he stopped when his gaze turned towards the garage door window, through which passed a silver Porsche.  It drove slowly and unsteadily but continued past the window.  “It’s going,” Clarence said, as the Porsche passed a second window before disappearing.  “It’s gone,” he murmured.  He heard Arnie approach from behind, feeling the breath of the muscular customer on his shoulder, but was too frightened to face him.
    “Was that my car driving away?”  Arnie asked coldly but calmly.
    Clarence spoke through gritted teeth.  “Maybe not.”
    “How many silver Porsches did you have in your parking lot?”
    He turned gingerly to face the bulky, alleged hitman.  “That, uh—that was probably your car.”
    “And what are you going to do about it?”
    Clarence’s voice squeaked.  “Call the police?”
    Arnie reached into his suit and withdrew an automatic handgun that he pointed directly at Clarence’s temple.
    “Or I could think of something else,” Clarence proffered through the lump in his throat.
    “Think fast,” Arnie recommended.  “I had a close call with the police already.  I don’t want them finding my cameras.”
    “Yeah, or that dead body,” Clarence added casually.  Both men’s eyes suddenly widened. 
    “What body?” Arnie demanded.
    “The body I didn’t see!” Clarence blurted out.
    Arnie’s expression became even darker.
    “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” Clarence asked.
    “Oh yeah.”  Arnie pointed the hand gun directly between Clarence’s eyes.
    Dave Nixon stepped into the garage.  “Clarence, have you seen—?”  He froze as he saw Arnie and the gun in Clarence’s face.  “It can wait,” Dave finished, turning to leave.
    “Hold it!”  Arnie ordered, aiming his gun away from Clarence and turning it toward Dave, who spun around to face the hitman—the no-longer alleged hitman.  “Neither of you move!”
    Dave looked back at Arnie before addressing Clarence.  “I told you this would happen if you kept charging $70 for a spark plug.”
    “Somebody stole the Porsche!” said Clarence, adequately summing up the situation.
    Dave nodded thoughtfully.  “That explains these.”  He held up a set of keys he was carrying.  “It’s Duke’s keys.  He left them here.”
    Arnie asked, “You know the guy who stole my car?”
    “I think so.  Consequently, I also know where he’s probably headed.”
    “What are those keys for?”
    “The Toyota Corolla.”
    “Does it run?”
    “Well, yeah, it runs, but—”
    “Hand them over!”
    Dave gently tossed the Toyota keys to Arnie, who caught them with his free hand. Arnie then backed away from the two mechanics before taking a quick look outside the window towards the parking lot.  Even when he wasn’t facing them, Arnie kept his weapon pointed at the pair. 
    While Arnie’s head was turned, Clarence mouthed a phrase in a nearly inaudible whisper:  “No brakes!”
    Dave mouthed back in a similar fashion as he pointed to Arnie’s gun:  “You tell him!”
    Arnie turned his full attention back to the mechanics.  “Okay, let’s go.”
    Clarence went pale.  “Uh ... go where?”
    “We’re going after the bastard that stole my Porsche.  All of us.  Everyone get in the Corolla.”
    Dave lifted a finger as a restraining gesture.  “Shouldn’t someone stay behind to mind the station?  It’ll be suspicious if we leave this place abandoned.”
    Arnie looked at Clarence.  “Does he know about the trunk?”
    Dave quickly spat out “No!”—but Clarence said “Yes!” simultaneously. 
    “Then I’m taking you both,” Arnie decided. 
    Dave shot Clarence a look, but Clarence only gave back a quick smirk.  Arnie handed Clarence the keys.  “You, the smelly one: You’re driving.”
    Clarence took the keys as if picking up a live hornet.  “I don’t wanna.”
    “Wanna eat lead?”
    “Who’s riding shotgun?” Clarence asked.  An awkward pause followed.  “Bad choice of words?”
    “Your friend will be in the passenger seat,” Arnie ordered.  “I’ll be in the back.  And if either of you two trying anything, you’ll join my pal in the trunk.”
    “What did that guy do, anyway?” asked Clarence.
    “He asked too many stupid questions.”
    Clarence shut up.
    The men filed out from the garage and took their respective seats in the Corolla.  As Clarence started the engine, he mentally sized up his chances for survival.  A vengeful hitman.  A loaded gun.  A car with no brakes.  He turned to Dave.  “Dave, if we don’t make it through this one, I have to tell you something.”
    “What’s that, buddy?”
    “I’ve always really hated you.”
    Dave nodded.  “I have to tell you something, too.  I’m the one who stole the porn mags from your locker.”
    “Son of a bitch!  I knew it!”  Clarence drew back his fist.
    “Would you two shut up and drive?”  Arnie barked from the back seat.
    “Yeah, whatever,”  Clarence said resignedly, pulling out into traffic.  “But can you at least make sure to wack Dave first?”
    “Can do,” Frecesco said flatly.
    Although Dave’s face retained it’s usual passiveness, he quietly swallowed. 


Frank was nearly blind with rage as he drove away from the airport, his foot weighing heavily on the accelerator.  It was bad enough that his vacation was destroyed.  It was even worse that Duke was profiting from his plane ticket.  But the final kicker came when he had realized that he had already paid the airport to park his car there for a whole week, and he was now driving it a full six-and-a-half days early.  Odd, he thought, how someone could steal his ticket and get a full refund, cash value, without showing any ID.  But the charge for parking was inexplicably non-refundable. 
    Dealing with the brusque, unsympathetic airline employees did not help Frank’s disposition.  They passed the buck from one unhelpful, shoulder-shrugging, incompetent clown to the next, all telling him the same thing: I can’t help you, so wait in that line for an hour and ask Mr. So-and-so.  Eventually, Frank realized that he gained nothing by participating in their run-around and left, resisting the temptation to give the airline clerks the serious beatings they deserved.  As was his nature, Frank found that he couldn’t even raise his voice to them, rationalizing it by thinking to himself, “They’re just doing their jobs”—even if their jobs included screwing him in the ass.
    In any event, it wasn’t in Frank’s nature to be violent.  Nor would it benefit him to be arrested for assault on airline personnel—especially not when he could be arrested later for beating Duke Looter over the head with a shovel.  Frank smiled at the pleasant thought of a bloodied Duke lying at his feet like a squashed slug, and his anger and adrenaline pushed his foot down hard on the accelerator.
    When Frank saw the patrolman’s lights flashing in his rear-view mirror, he merely pursed his lips and nodded.  Yes, this great day had now become perfect.
    After examining Frank’s license, the pointy-nosed, pasty-skinned highway patrolman peered at Frank through his sunglasses.  “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
    “No,” said Frank routinely.
    The patrolman jerked back his head in surprise, ripping off his sunglasses.  “Really?  You ain’t got a clue?  Christ, buddy, I clocked you doing 75 in a 50-mile-an-hour zone!  And you don’t know why I pulled you over?!”
    Correction, Frank thought to himself.  A smart-ass cop.  Now the day was perfect.


“Are you sure you know where this guy is headed?” Arnie the Arsenal asked, poking his head into the front seat and casually waving his loaded weapon between Clarence and Dave.
    “Pretty sure,” Dave responded, as the Carolla cruised along toward Duke’s church.
    “’Pretty sure?’” Arnie repeated.
    Dave held up his hands helplessly.  “Hey, I’m sorry, but the reverend’s been known to occasionally have a liquid lunch.  And dinner.  And breakfast.  He may not exactly be driving in a straight line.”
    “I’ll look for a trail of smashed mailboxes,” Clarence suggested, while his eyes darted from the street to the speed gauge to the brake pedal to Arnie’s glowering face in his rear-view mirror.
    A moment later, the Carolla rounded a corner, and Dave lurched forward, pointing at a silver Porsche driving wobbly in front of them.  “There he is!”
    “Maybe he’ll recognize us and stop,” Clarence said, riding up close to Duke and honking the horn. 
    Instead, the Porsche shot further ahead, speeding up.
    “He’s trying to get away!”  Arnie observed.  “Step on it!”
    Clarence’s eyes again darted around.  “Uh, are you sure?  We know where he’s going, and we don’t want to attract the fuzz.”
    Clarence winced as he felt the cold steel of Arnie’s gun pressed against his neck.  “Just do it!  Floor it!”
    Clarence floored it.


Duke blinked rapidly as he drove, trying to keep pace with all the twists and turns the streets seemed to be executing.  The car also resisted him, occasionally wanting to steer itself into the opposite lane or onto the shoulder.  Duke tried to take a swig from his bottle of Scotch but missed his lips, and the fluid dribbled down his chin and shirt.  He dropped the bottle disgustedly on the passenger seat and focused on his wobbly steering.  Who would have thought that these fancy cars would have such tricky steering columns? 
    He then glanced at his rear-view mirror, catching a glimpse of an approaching Toyota Corolla.  Duke laughed scornfully at the sight of his own car. “Ha! That guy’sh driving a Toyota Corolla!  What a loosher!” Then he shrugged. The mighty Jay-sus can’t bless everyone with a Porsche like mine, he thought.
    He looked at the mirror again when the Corolla began honking its horn at him.  “Oh, I’m not going fasht enough for ya, huh?”  he asked the Corolla aloud.  “Well, howz about a little rashe?”  Duke stepped on the gas, and the Porsche shot forward.  Duke chuckled as the Corolla grew fainter in his sights.  But then the Corolla began to gain on him again.  Duke drove faster, if no more steadier.
    Duke was about to go full-throttle when he saw the lights of a highway patrol car.  The patrolman had pulled over a car going the opposite direction, but Duke panicked when he saw the flashing lights.  He took his foot off the gas pedal, and in his drunken state, slammed his foot on the brake pedal with considerably more force than he intended.


Frank scowled as the patrolman opened up his ticket book.  He was about to get his first moving violation ever, and he quietly fumed as he thought about how his insurance company would find a way to drive up his premiums despite an otherwise flawless driving record.  This was another humiliation that Duke was going to pay for, and Frank seriously began to wonder how far he could cram a cross up the reverend’s rectum.
    Why is he picking on me, anyway? Frank thought.  There were far greater offenders than he.  Like that silver Porsche, for example.  Judging by the speed of its approach, the Porsche had to be going at least fifteen miles faster than Frank had been going.  But he would be the one to get the ticket as the Porsche flew by, even though anyone who could afford Porsche could also afford a speeding ticket far more than Frank.
    But to Frank’s surprise, the Porsche suddenly slowed down.  Too suddenly, in fact.  Both Frank’s and the patrolman’s attention were directed at the Porsche as the driver hit the brakes hard, tires smoking and squealing as they dragged across the pavement, leaving black smears of melted rubber behind them.
    “Holy crap,” Frank muttered when the Porsche began to fishtail, flailing wildly as it struggled against momentum.  After a few wild swerves, the car miraculously stopped, but now sat in the middle of the road, perpendicular to traffic. 
Frank breathed a sigh of relief for the driver, glad that the Porsche was able to come to a relatively safe stop—though this was mainly because he was unable to see the driver’s face.  Duke Looter looked nervously over his shoulder at the highway patrolman, who seemed to be taking a sudden interest in him.  The patrolman began to step closer to the Porsche—until he saw a Toyota Corolla barreling down on them, not even slowing down as it rapidly approached the sitting Porsche.  Why wasn’t the driver stopping?  Couldn’t he see the car stopped in front of him?


When the Porsche began to fishtail, Clarence tried to slow the Corolla down.  But his foot met with little resistance when he applied the brake pedal.  He pumped the brakes vigorously, but their speed didn’t decrease.
    Then he saw the Porsche parked directly in front of him.  In the split second before impact, Clarence thought, I’m going to die and I never got to have a threesome with Cindy Crawford and Elle MacPherson.
    As Dave braced for impact, he thought, I’m going to die and I never got to blackmail Clarence by threatening to show his girlfriend pictures of Clarence having a threesome with two cheap whores.


The airbags inflated properly upon impact, so Dave and Clarence suffered only minor bruises along with their facefuls of latex.  Arnie, who had been unbuckled in the back seat, slammed into the seats in front of him during the collision and collapsed onto the floor like a rag doll.
    The Corolla had slammed into the rear passenger side of the Porsche, sparing Duke any major harm.  The crash had shocked him into sobriety, but that was a condition easily rectified.
    The impact had also forced open the trunk of the Porsche, sending its deceased occupant flying from the vehicle and landing only a few feet away from the highway patrolman. 
    The patrolman looked at the disheveled corpse that lay at his feet.  Then he looked at the damage to the two cars and, seeing that the crash victims were still alive, turned back to Frank.  “I can see this is probably going to take a while,” he observed.  “How about I just let you off with a warning this time?”
    Frank was still mesmerized by the crash scene, his attention mostly focused on the corpse that was thrown from the Porsche’s trunk.  “Is that guy dead?”
    The patrolman waved him on his way.  “Move along, sir. There’s nothing to see here.”
    Frank pointed at the carnage.  “What do you mean, there’s nothing to see here?  There’s a car crash and a dead guy in the road!”
    “Move along, sir!”
    “Moving along,” Frank said quickly and started his engine.  It then occurred to Frank that he had just received his first lucky break of the day.  In fact, maybe some good could come from this mess after all.  He knew Terri had strong leadership skills, so the shop was in good hands.  No doubt Terri found ways to run the shop more smoothly and sufficiently.  In fact, she probably even got his two slack-off employees, Dave and Clarence, to actually earn their keep and prevent them from cutting out early.  He pulled out lazily.  Even after witnessing the crash first-hand, Frank couldn’t resist driving by the crash slowly to gawk.  Then he caught a look at the two occupants of the Corolla, who were pushing the deflating airbags out of their way.  Dave and Clarence turned to see Frank, who nearly stopped at the sight of his two employees, ones that were supposed to be at the shop working this very instant. They smiled sheepishly at Frank and waved.  Frank slammed on his accelerator and sped back to the Pitt Stop.
    He fumed halfway through the trip.  Terri had one overriding order: Everyone works until seven.  How could she let him down on that one simple point?  But as he traveled on, his rage grew into concern. The truth is that Terri wouldn’t let him down.  At least, not deliberately.  Terri was too honest to be bribed by those two clowns and too smart to be tricked by them.  That left only one explanation: They drugged her, tied her up, and caged her in Clarence’s locker, left alone in the dark with Clarence’s unwashed overalls.  He was distressed at any thought of harm coming to Terri, a woman who—despite her engagement to another man—was the woman Frank truly loved.
    Frank’s fears appeared to be justified when he arrived at the Pitt Stop, where customers were driving away, presumably without paying for their gas, as the station appeared to be completely unattended.  He almost expected to see Terry bound and gagged behind the counter, but a quick scan of the building gave no trace of her.  He decided to try the office.
    By the light of his desk lamp, he found Terri.  She was not bound and gagged but snoozing freely and peacefully behind his desk.  As he approached her, Frank noticed the empty Jack Daniels bottle on his desk.  Then he noticed the spilled fluid on Terri’s overalls, and a quick sniff cemented his suspicions.
    Terri’s eyes began to flicker.  She looked up dreamily at Frank.  “Frank?  Here?  Has it been a week?  What’s going on?”
    Frank held the Jack Daniels bottle in front of her.  “Et tu, Terri?”  He set the bottle down and stormed form the office.
    Terri quickly stood up.  “Wait!  This isn’t what you think it is!”  But Frank was already gone, leaving her to talk aloud to an empty room.  She looked around, still groggy, trying to get her bearings.  “At least, I don’t think it’s what you think it is.”
Her knees began trembling, and the room tilted suddenly.  Terri realized that she may have tried to stand too fast.  “Sleepy,” she said to the room and collapsed to the floor.