Ask the Parrot

10

The Dennisons’ red Ram pickup was nowhere in sight as Parker drove a mile out of town, U-turned back past Lindahl’s place tucked back in behind the boarded-up house, and stopped at the gas station, which was brightly lit in the daytime like most such places, but still had an air of emptiness about it.

There was one set of pumps, with service on both sides. Behind them was a broad low white clapboard building that was mostly overhead garage doors except for a small office at the right end with fuel additive posters obscuring the plate-glass window and the smaller panes of glass in the door. To the right of the building, along the rear line of the blacktop, were parked half a dozen older cars, all with license plates attached, so they were here for service, not for sale.

Parker got out of the Ford and read the hand-printed notice taped to each pump: PAY INSIDE FIRST. Taking out two of The Rad’s twenties, he walked over to the office, where another hand-printed sign beside the door gave the hours of operation, including SUN 10-4.

He opened the door and heard the jangle of a warning bell, which was followed by classical music, something loud with a lot of strings that the bell had obscured for just an instant. Parker had expected a different kind of music, given Lindahl’s description of Brian Hopwood, but that was the reason he’d come here, to understand the man and the operation.

The office was small and dark and crowded, as though brushed with a thin coating of oil. The desk was dark metal, covered with specs and repair books and appointment schedules and an old black telephone. A dark wood swivel chair behind it was very low, with the seat and back draped in a variety of cloth: old blankets, quilts, a couple of tan chamois cloths. On the back wall, a wooden shelf held an old cash register, next to a key rack with several sets of keys on it, each of them with a cardboard tag attached.

On the left wall of the office was an open doorway to the service area, through which a man now came, frowning as though he hadn’t expected to be interrupted. He was short and scrawny and any age above Social 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 down, go home, say hello to the missus, have my shower, read the Sunday funnies until suppertime. I don’t know what Tom Lindahl told you, but I’m not a nut.”

“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.