“How about lending me five bucks?” he whined, still backing away, he was
now out in the hot sunshine.
“You’re getting nothing out of me,” I said, moving after him. “Beat it!”
By now he was close to his battered car. He paused, his hand on the car door
and he squinted at me.
“Okay, if that’s the way you want it, fella,” he said, a sudden rasp in his
voice. “I’m going to talk to the cops! I’m going to tell them to look for Carl!
You and that wh0re, cuddling and kssing . . .”
I jumped him. My fist slammed against his jaw, sending him flat on his back.
I was so mad I didn’t notice a trucker had just pulled up by the gas pumps. It
was only when he yelled at me I got control of myself. I was about ready to
give this skinny vulture the hiding of his life.
As soon as the dog saw its master sprawl in the dust, it fled, shivering into the
car.
The trucker got out of the truck and hurried over, his expression aggressive.
“Hey! If you want to hit a guy, pick one your own age and size!” he bawledat me.
I felt tempted to take him, but I knew it would be bad for business. Truckers
talk together. I choked down my rage and stepped back as Ricks crawled unsteadily to his feet.
“Okay, okay,” I said to the trucker. “You’re right. I guess I blew my top and
I’m sorry, but this punk comes scrounging here week after week and he drives me nuts.”
The trucker lost his aggressive look.
“Well, yeah . . . but to hit an old guy . . .” He stared at Ricks, then grimaced.
“A scrounger, huh?”
“You said it. He never stops putting the bite on me.”
He relaxed, nodding.
“Sorry I pushed my oar in. My father-in-law is the same. I could do with
some gas.”
“Sure. I’m coming.”
He went back to his truck. Ricks got slowly and painfully into his car. He was
holding his jaw and mumbling to himself.
I took from my wallet a ten dollar bill and shoved it at him.
“Here . . . take this and beat it,” I said.
He had started the car engine. With a shaking hand, he took the bill, then
crumpling it, he threw it in my face.
“I’ll fix you for this!” he snarled, his face vicious with rage. “I’m going to
talk to the police.”
He stamped down on the gas pedal and the car shot cr@zily away.
Then I knew I had made a dangerous mistake hitting him. I had imagined he
was so spineless and such a scrounger I could pay for that punch with a ten
dollar bill.
I picked up the bill and put it back in my wallet. There was chill of fear
around my heart.
I walked over to the waiting trucker and filled his tank. He looked curiously
at me. He had seen Ricks throw the money at me, but he didn’t say anything.
When he had gone, I went into the repair shed and dragged the workbench away from Jenson’s grave. Working fast, I filled in the hole dug by Ricks’s
dog and levelled the ground. Then drawing from a pile of rusty scrap that
stood against the far wall, I made a great heap of it on the grave.
The job took me half an hour, but when I was through, there was no chance
of the dog pulling the same trick on me again.
While I worked, I wondered about Ricks. Would he go to the police? In the
vicious mood he was in, he probably would, but would they pay any attention
to him? If they came out here investigated and me I was sunk. Should I pack
up and get out while the going was good?
Still trying to make up my mind, I left the repair shed and over to the lunch
room.
I saw a dusty Lincoln beside the gas pumps. I had been so preoccupied with
my thoughts I hadn’t seen it arrive.
There was a man sitting at the wheel, and there was something familiar about him.
He got out of the car and came towards me. He was wearing a shabby, wrinkled suit. A slouch hat that had seen some years’ hard wear rested at the
back of his head.
I recognised him, and my heart skipped a beat and then began race.
The man walking towards me was Roy Tracey.
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