A motor purred gently to
a halt as the tires of an Oklahoma City police car rolled into the gas station
right off Exit 1B on I-240. The door
squeaked open, and Officer Rivera—beat cop for the area—hopped out of the
car. Feet crunching on loose rocks, he
started for the door.
He didn’t reach it before
it swung open, and two mangy-looking heads stuck their way out. They were followed by eight legs, then two
more legs that belonged to their owner.
“Fido, Spot, come along! Momma
wants to get home!”
Rivera stared curiously
at the dogs as their owner walked them back to her car. It wasn’t every day you saw pets in a gas
station. He was pretty sure the cashier
was happy to see them go, a guess that was confirmed when he saw the look of
relief on the man’s face.
The next customer in
line, a short man in jeans and a greasy T-shirt, had his hand on a can of Pepsi
on the counter. After counting through
it, the clerk nodded his head. “Working
late tonight?” he asked his customer.
“Sorta!” squeaked a voice
just barely recognizable as a man’s.
“I’ve been swamped with new inventory, and I’ve got to—”
The clerk held up his
hand. “You don’t have to tell me again,”
he said. “I heard the commercial.”
“Why don’t you come over
and buy one sometime, Chuck?” the voice squeaked. “You know you could use something to replace
that old bucket of bolts—”
“The Chief gets me where
I need to go. It’s done that for the
last twenty years, and it’ll do so for another twenty—”
“—weeks,” finished his
customer. “At the end of that time, come
see me. Or sooner. Be seeing you, Chuck!”
“Later, Bob.”
The car dealer wandered
out of the store, Rivera nodding to him as he passed. Wandering up to the counter, Rivera placed
both hands on the surface and stared at Chuck.
“What I’m about to say is
strictly off the record,” he said in a low voice. “If anyone from the department comes in and
asks, you don’t know anything about it.”
“You can count on me,”
Chuck said. “Whatcha want?”
Rivera looked cautiously
around, to make sure no one could overhear.
“Got any Bug Juice?” he asked.
“The boys at the department have been giving me a hard time about
drinking the stuff, and I…”
Whistling his jingle, Bob
wandered back across the parking lot to his business. He’d left it unlocked—no sense getting out
the keys when you were only going right next door. Rounding the building, he opened the door
facing the Burger King and walked into his office, flicking on the lights.
The office itself was a
pretty good-sized space—as big as a waiting room at a doctor’s office, only
with much fewer chairs. Several rows of
filing cabinets stood near the wall by the door Bob had come in by. To his right was the door to the showroom—the
only other exit from the office. Facing
the door he’d entered through was his desk—a long, mahogany affair with masses
of unsorted papers scattered across its surface. Hanging on the wall above the desk was a
photo of Bob, taken when he was filming one of his TV commercials, which were
worse than his radio commercials. He was
wearing purple shoes, green shorts, and a T-shirt which read “I am only Number
2 when there is no Number 1.” The
star-shaped sunglasses and the five bead necklaces made him the definition of goofiness.
Smiling at the portrait,
Bob snapped open his can of Pepsi. He
took a deep swig, then let out an even deeper burp.
“Ah, that hit the spot,”
he told himself. “Now, where did I leave
my purchase book?”
He wandered over to the
desk and began rummaging through the papers on it. There were a lot of these—Bob was a pretty
messy guy. Several books were scattered
over the desk, but the first several he saw were not the ones he wanted—“Income
for the Fiscal Year,” “Goals for the Fiscal Year,” “How to Double Your Sales without
Working Harder”—a grin crossed Bob’s face as he read that title. He’d done that, alright—not by using any of
the advice in the book. On the contrary,
he’d found the fast track to the top—and he’d been successful, so far.
Brushing aside a few more
papers, he suddenly glimpsed the book he wanted. “Ah-ha!” he said, propping it up. Plopping down in his desk chair, he kicked
his feet out to read it—
His shoe connected with
something soft—something that moved!
“Huh?” he said, sitting up straighter.
He poked his foot forward again.
All at once, he was
yanked out of the office chair!
The back of his desk
(side he was on) rose into the air, then fell forwards, as all the papers,
notebooks, and the desk lamp went tumbling off.
Frank grabbed that last object and brought it down towards Bob’s head,
but the dealer rolled away just in time to avoid being knocked out. Still stunned, he staggered to his feet.
Frank was already backing
towards the door, but he wasn’t going out without a fight. He picked up a chair and threw it at the man,
then dashed over to the door to the showroom—right next to the large filing
cabinet against the front wall. Hand on
the knob, he was just opening it, when—
“Freeze!” the voice
squeaked. Something in it told Frank
he’d better look over his shoulder, and he was glad he did. Well, he wasn’t thrilled to see the gun in
Bob’s hand, but at least it hadn’t gone off.
However, that gun meant he couldn’t leave. Reluctantly, he dropped his hand off the
knob.
“Searching my office?” Bob
squeaked. “I thought those papers looked
WAY out of order. What’d you find?”
“What do you think I
found?” Frank asked him.
“WAY TOO MUCH,” Bob
exclaimed, sounding like he was discussing his inventory. “Walk over to this desk.”
Frank did so, dragging a
smile up onto his face. “I don’t know
what you have planned,” he said, “but you might be interested to know that the
police are on their way.”
“Oh, sure,” said
Bob. “If they knew about me, they
would’ve come themselves.”
“They will,” said
Frank. “I’ve already had them
notified. You can’t escape.”
“Right now, it looks like
you can’t escape,” said Bob. “Stand
right where you are, and keep still!”
Gun still trained on
Frank, Bob leaned over and pulled open a drawer in the desk.
“Where’s Stephanie?”
Frank asked him.
“Who?” Bob said.
“You know full well who
I’m talking about,” Frank said. “The
owner of that Mercury you’re trying to sell.”
“Oh, her,” Bob laughed,
and his left hand came up with a pair of handcuffs. Slowly and awkwardly, he began to apply them
to Frank’s hands. “That’s not my part of
the organization. All I do is sell the
cars that come in. I’m not actually
supposed to know where she is.”
“Not supposed to?” Frank
asked, as he felt a cuff close around his left wrist.
“Nope—but I do!” Bob grinned.
“I keep my ears open, and I know quite a bit about that gang. More than they’d like me to know. Of course, you’ll find out soon enough, once
I turn you over to the rest of them.
They’ll be taking you off to that Subway they hide—”
“So, you know about it!”
boomed a voice from the showroom door.
“Too bad for you, Bob!”
Even as the voice started
speaking, Frank threw himself to the floor.
Bob wasn’t quite so fast—or fortunate.
“Vince?” he gasped—
Bam! Bam!
Just as the gunshots went
off, the lights went out. Then, there
was the sound of a door slamming, followed by a thud and a moan. Frank rolled over to the edge of the desk,
then lay still, trying to figure out what had happened. He heard labored breathing from the other
side of it and guessed that Bob had been hit, but he couldn’t tell just how bad
the dealer’s injuries were. Barely
breathing himself, Frank listened carefully, trying to figure out where the
gunman had gone.
He heard a soft
tapping—footsteps—no, they weren’t regular enough to be those—
All at once, the door to
the lot opened! Frank glanced up just in
time to see a figure slip outside before the side door slammed shut. Less than a second later, a motor roared, as
a semi truck started out front.
Leaping to his feet,
Frank started towards the door.
Suddenly, his feet came in contact with a chair, and he went
sprawling. It took him a few seconds to
get up, but when he did, he rushed to the door, opening it in time to see—
“Frank!”
“Nancy! I thought I told you to wait for Dad—”
“I’m right here!” Mr.
Anderson was right behind his daughter.
“Nancy told me you found Stephanie’s car. What happened?”
Frank groped around on
the wall until he found the lightswitch.
When he turned it on and looked back, his guess was confirmed. Bob lay unconscious on the floor, and the
room was quite a bit of a mess.
“He’s involved with the
gang somehow,” Frank said, pointing to the dealer, “and someone else involved
with it just shot him. I think that guy
might have gotten into a truck outside—
“The Atlas moving van?”
Mr. Anderson said. “We saw it as we ran
over!”
“That’d be him!” Frank just had time to say those words before
Mr. Anderson took off running for his squad car. “Follow me!” he yelled.
His kids were right on
his heels. “The truck was just getting
on the highway, heading towards the Interstate,” Nancy explained. “You’re sure that’s who—”
“I think so,” said
Frank. “That truck’s probably full of
more cars, for Bob. He gets them from
somewhere!”
Mr. Anderson hopped into
the car—Frank ran around to the passenger’s side, and Nancy took to the
backseat. This time, they weren’t going
to get in the way. They were material
witnesses.
“Car 9 to Control. Car 9 to Control,” Mr. Anderson called over
the radio. “Shooting at Bob’s Auto Sales,
south of Exit 1B, I-240. Suspect driving
an Atlas Moving Van, taking the exit ramp for 240 West. Be warned, suspect is armed and
dangerous. Requesting backup.”
“Attention, all units,”
Control called over the radio, promptly repeating Mr. Anderson’s message. “Come at once.”
Waiting at the edge of
the gas station lot, Rivera heard the announcement over the radio. “Hot diggety dog!—and right next to this gas
station, too. Control, this is Car
112. I can see it!” he yelled. “Following Car 9.”
Sirens wailing, the
cruisers roared up the exit ramp, in pursuit of the suspect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
REMEMBER THE ST. LOUIS BROWNS...
When the Ardmore Indians lost their third baseman
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