Something for Nothing (39 page)

It took about ten minutes for him to work his way up to the front of the line. He kept turning the engine off to save what little gas he had left, and then restarting it to pull forward (though it occurred to him that this might be a bad strategy—that he might be wasting gas rather
than saving it). He knew he should be relieved, that it could be worse: half an hour, forty-five minutes. Imagine having to deal with this every day—and in the morning, when you were trying to get the kids off to school and get to work. What a fucking nightmare that would be. He'd be sneaking out at night and siphoning gas, too.

Martin pulled up to the pump and the gas station attendant came over to his window. He was an older guy, kind of crusty. Probably about fifty-five, maybe even sixty. Martin had seen him before, thought he might be the owner, or at least the manager. But he'd never seen him this close up. He had a really weathered face—lots of deep lines down his cheeks and along his forehead. In fact, he looked a little too salty to be wearing the jackass gas station uniform. There was a name tag sewn into the upper left breast of the shirt, but Martin couldn't quite make out the name.

The guy leaned over a little bit, and motioned for Martin to roll down his window, using a quick, circular motion with his hand. Martin nodded, and hit the down button on the door panel. He loved that feature—no more hand cranks for him. He didn't know if he was in a full-service lane; a lot of stations didn't even have them anymore. But it would make it less likely that he'd be spotted if he stayed in the car.

“Hi there,” the guy said, leaning down and putting a hand on the door. His arm was hairy and tanned, and strong-looking.

Martin nodded, smiled. “Hi,” he said. “Could you fill it up with regular, please?”

The guy nodded, but didn't move. “Listen,” he said to Martin, peering in at him now, a little bit intent. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but today is an odd-numbered day.” He looked toward the back of Martin's Caddy, as if he could actually see his license plate from where he was standing, then back at Martin. “You've got an even-numbered plate,” he said. “I can't give you any gas. Sorry about that.”

Martin stared at him for a second. He was shocked—couldn't have been more surprised. He was more surprised than when he found Val sitting dead in his barn, flies buzzing around his bloody bullet wounds.
He looked out the windshield, put his hands on the top of the steering wheel, and put his head back against the seat. “Oh my God,” he said. Then he leaned forward, so that his face broke the plane of the window and looked at the guy again.

“Look,” he said. “I had no idea it was the wrong day for me to get gas. I usually don't do this . . . I mean, I actually have a gas pump out in Hayward. I've got a business out there. I sell used aircrafts, and so I can pump my own gas. So I don't—I'm not really up on which day is which. For gas, I mean. But I've gotta tell you,” he said, “I really need to get some gas right now. I mean, it's kind of an emergency, actually.”

The guy didn't move from his leaning position, and still had his hand on the door. He hadn't changed expression, either, but Martin could tell that he was processing what Martin had just told him. He could see now that the name tag sewn into the left breast of the shirt said Arnie. Martin wondered if really his name or if it was just the shirt that had been available when he showed up for work.

Now Arnie nodded, and put both hands on the door, arms straight out. “Okay,” he said, nodding just slightly and looking Martin right in the eye. “What's the emergency? Is it a medical emergency, I mean? Are you headed out to a hospital or something?”

Martin shook his head. “No,” he said. “It's not a medical emergency. I just—it's a work thing. You know? I've gotta meet someone out at my office in Hayward.”

The minute he spoke he knew he'd made a mistake. He should've lied to the guy: stepped through the opening, said that yes, his wife was in the hospital or something like that. Maybe one of the kids. The guy had practically asked him to lie.

Arnie shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “Can't do it.” He looked back at the cars behind Martin, as if to indicate that it was time for him to move along. Martin did the same, leaning out the window a little farther to see what was going on behind him. There were five or six cars sitting there. They looked like prehistoric creatures waiting their turn at the water hole.

“So unless there's something else . . .”

Martin looked back at Arnie, at his uniform, his name tag, his tanned, weathered face. And then he leaned back into his seat, stretching his legs out as straight as possible, and reached into his front pocket. He took out the packet of bills he'd stuffed in there—one he'd grabbed off the top of Val's money just before throwing it into his trunk. He was glad now he'd done it. He peeled off five twenties. One, two, three, four, five. Then he leaned over and, using his right hand, held them out toward Arnie.

“Listen,” he said. He wanted his voice to sound matter-of-fact and authoritative at the same time. “Here's a hundred dollars. For the gas. And for the hassle. You can keep the change.” He looked up at Arnie, who was still standing, arms straight and resting on his door. He could have done a few push-ups off Martin's door if he'd wanted to.

But then Arnie stood up straight, and folded his arms across his chest. He was squinting down at Martin, and shaking his head.

“No, you listen, buddy,” he said. “I don't want your fucking money.” He leaned forward a little bit, unfolding his arms and pointing at the line of cars behind Martin's car. “That's not what this is about,” he said. “I'm not selling gas to the highest bidder, you know.” He looked disgusted. Incredulous. Then he stood up straight again.

“Look,” Martin said. He looked at the five bills in his suspended hand. “I didn't mean—”

“Do you really think I need your hundred dollars?” Arnie asked, cutting him off. “Do you know what the fine is for letting people fill up on the wrong day? Do you? Huh? Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?”

Looking down at Martin, he took a step forward, and then kicked the underside of the Caddy, near the bottom of the door but probably not the door itself.
Clang.

“Get the fuck out of here!” he yelled.

Martin jumped at the noise and at the aggression of his kick. He
pulled his hand back inside the car, but as he did, he dropped the bills out of his hands.

Arnie leaned down, muttering and swearing, and picked up each of the twenty-dollar bills. They barely had time to hit the ground. Pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck. He moved like a cat—how could a guy his age move so quickly? Then he stood, wadded them up into a loose money ball and threw it at Martin. The bunched-up bills flew apart as they left his hand. One hit him in the face, another in the shoulder. The others fell back onto the pavement. Martin scrambled to start up his car, but interrupted himself to hit the window control on the panel of his armrest. He was afraid the guy was going to lean in and punch him.

“I said get the fuck out of here!” Arnie yelled—roared—through the closing window. He stepped again toward the car, this time with his fist cocked.

Martin got the car started, threw it into gear, and lurched away from the gas pump and Arnie. He wanted to flip him off—let him know he wasn't entirely defeated. But he was afraid that he'd get cut off before he could pull into the street, and Arnie the Gas Rationing Hero would haul him out of his car and beat the shit out of him. Jesus. He was probably some nut-job military guy, a sergeant, maybe, who'd done a few tours in Vietnam, had retired (with a Purple Heart and some other shit), and now was kicking around in the suburbs, missing the life.

He drove down the street, feeling rattled. More than rattled. There were bad days, and then there were bad days.

He headed back toward the center of town. He thought about Hano, but he was too distracted to give over to worrying that he might be spotted by him.

He drove up to the Gulf station and pulled in. There was another line, of course, another half dozen cars or so. Fuck, he said. But this time he knew what to do.

“Hey there,” he said when the attendant walked up to his window.
He was some young guy in his early twenties. Blond, kind of good-looking, and fit—like a guy who'd been on the track team a year or two earlier, and who hadn't gone to seed just yet.

“Hi,” the guy said. “Can I help you, sir?”

Martin pulled out the wad of money from his pants pocket again, peeled off another five twenties—no, make it six.

“Listen,” he said to the kid. “I know I'm not supposed to get gas today. I know all about it. But I've got a problem, and I'm hoping you can help me out.” Martin looked him in the eye, but made sure his money was visible, too. And it seemed to be working—the kid was listening.

“Okay,” the kid said. “Sure.”

“Well,” Martin said. “It's like this. I've gotta get out to Alta Bates Hospital in Berkeley. My son—he broke his arm. He was at his aunt's house. I mean, she's not his aunt, she's just a good friend of the family, but you get the point. He's out there at her house, and she just called me. He fell out of a tree house, and broke his arm. So I've gotta get out there right away. I mean, he's all right and everything—she's got him at the hospital, after all. But you know what I mean. He's only eight, and I just really want to be with him. But the problem is that I don't have any gas. I'm not gonna get across town, much less out to Berkeley.”

Martin paused, trying to gauge how the kid was receiving his story. And from what he could tell, he wasn't buying it. The kid was leaning forward, open-mouthed, but his eyes were starting to lose their focus.

“So what do you say?” Martin said. “And listen,” he said, holding out the six twenties. “Here's a few extra bucks for the trouble. It's all I've got, but seriously—please—take it.”

At the sight of the money, the kid's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Okay, mister,” the kid said as he reached out to take the money from Martin. “I understand. No problem. I can help you out.”

Martin sighed. Thank goodness, he thought. He watched as the kid turned toward the gas pump, his eyes still on the bills. Martin could
almost hear him calculating how much partying he could get out of the money. It was going to be a good night for that guy. Maybe a good few nights, if he didn't get sloppy with his money and start buying for everyone else.

T
HE FIRST THING
M
ARTIN
did when he got to the marina was stop at the pay phone by the bait shop and phone Linda. He knew he couldn't say anything to her about Val and Angela—he had to wait until it hit the news, so that it seemed like he was getting his information at the same time as everyone else. But he wanted to make sure they were staying out in Oakland. He didn't think Hano would actually show up at his house, but he didn't want to find out the hard way.

“Yes,” she said. “We're staying the night. I think we're going to the beach tomorrow, in fact. Peter really wants to go down to Santa Cruz, to the boardwalk, and Sarah said she wanted to go, too. And Sharon's kids are up for it, so it'll be fun. Or fun for them, that is. I don't really like it there. The beach is all right, but the boardwalk is seedy.”

There was a pause, and as Martin tried to decide whether he should offer to go down to Santa Cruz with them (which didn't sound so bad, actually—he suddenly felt intensely lonely), he noticed that someone had written a message into the face of the pay phone. “Satan Lives,” it said. He wasn't sure what it meant, exactly, but it was easy to imagine some disaffected teenager standing there, maybe talking to his equally disaffected girlfriend, and scratching the words into place with his pocketknife. (It was definitely a boy, Martin thought.)

Then Linda was asking if he was still planning to take Peter to the A's game, and he realized he'd missed the first part of what she'd been saying.

“And so now I know what a spitball is,” she said. “He's driving me crazy.” There was another pause, but it was short, and pointed. “You'd better be planning to take him,” she said. “You're going, right?”

He turned around and looked back toward the wharf. There were dozens of boats bobbing in their berths, waiting for their owners to
come take them out for a cruise around the bay. He looked for
By a Nose,
but it was hidden behind a couple of really big yachts.

“Yep,” he said. “It's all set.” He realized suddenly that, with Val dead, there wasn't going to be a trip to Mexico on the eighth—they really could go to the game. And he realized as well that money wasn't going to be an issue. If he wanted, he could buy a new set of better, more expensive scalper's tickets. In fact, if he wanted, he could buy a new car on the way over to the game, just so they could go in style. Huh, he thought.

The only problem now was Hano.

“Listen,” he said. “I think I'm gonna stay on the boat tonight. Maybe for a couple of days. Just to get out of the house—away from Walnut Station, in fact. Maybe that's what we both need to do. Just get away for a little bit.”

She was quiet on the other end, listening. He knew she was trying to figure out his angle.

“Well,” she said. “You can stay wherever you want, I guess. We're here at Sharon's place. And like I said, we're going to the beach tomorrow. And after that, I don't know. But the kids are having a good time with Sharon's kids, and Sharon and I are having a good time, so I think we'll be another few days. So maybe it's like you said—it's a little bit of a break for us.”

He threw in an “I love you” as the call wound down, and she said she loved him, too—but only after a pause. He could tell that she was still pissed off, still wary. And who could blame her?