Back behind the wheel, Polk drove toward the signpost. Sure enough, it marked a small intersection, the arrow aiming north with “Bibby, 2 miles.” Better bet than taking a chance on civilization suddenly sprouting up in front of him.
Muttering under his breath at the oil light, Polk Greshen turned right.
“Well, well. Do you believe it?”
Polk expected Bibby to be no more than a crossroads, lucky to have a general store with a pump outside it. Instead, just about the time he could make out a clump of buildings in the distance, there was this real nice mini-billboard on the side of the road:
Another favorable impression as he approached the first few buildings along the main street. Old and mostly wood, except for the bank, which was yellow brick. But everything all spruced up with new paint and bright little signs like BIBBY CAFE and COLE’S HARDWARE and so on. Good omen, for a change. All the way at the end of the street, Polk thought he could see POLICE on a bigger sign with something else writ smaller beneath it, but it was too far away to read. “Don’t think I’ll be visiting that end of town, anyway, no-thank-you-sir.”
There was almost no vehicle traffic, only a couple of people walking heat-slow past the storefronts. Fortunately, in the next block Polk spotted a filling station — not a national company, just “GAS” — but it had a couple of service bays. He pulled into the station near the pumps, and a mechanic came out from one of the bays, wiping grease off his hands with a rag.
The man was dressed in a white T-shirt and denim overalls, all kinds of things sagging in his pockets. Polk thought he must be just about dying from the temperature, though the mechanic gave no notice of it walking over to the Ford.
Polk glanced down at his own clothes. New, tooled boots; sharp, stone-washed jeans; and a Led Zeppelin tank-top from that Tulsa rockshop, the nine millimeter barely a lump where he’d stuck it in his belt under the top. “I’ll probably look mighty city to these folks.”
The man’s overalls had a name patch on the left breast. “Sid,” was what it said.
Without turning off the engine, Polk looked at him. “Sid, I’ll be needing some oil.”
A nod. “What weight you got in her now?”
Polk could hot-wire a car, but he didn’t ever have one long enough to think of such things. “Not sure about that.”
Another nod. “Your light come on, did it?”
“About three miles back, give or take.”
Sid nodded again. “Let me take a look under her.”
Polk had run some cons himself in the past, so he sure could see one coming at him now. He got out of the Ford, trying not to breathe the heat too deeply, and squatted down as Sid did about the sorriest pushup you’ve ever seen, face staring under the chassis.
“See that there?”
Polk used his hand to brace himself, nearly burning the skin right off the palm on Sid’s hot asphalt. Following the mechanic’s pointing finger, he could see the kind of drip-drip-drip you get from an old faucet. Only it wasn’t water.
“Oil, huh?”
“That’s what they call it.” Sid got to his feet like a lame bear. “I’m gonna have to put her up on the rack, try and plug the leak.”
“How much?”
“Won’t know that till I get her up there.”
Polk figured he could kiss what was left of the beaner’s money goodbye. “How long, then?”
A sweep of the hand toward the other cars in the lot. “Got four ahead of you.”
Polk considered grabbing this hick by the straps on his overalls, shaking him till he thought some about changing his priorities. But Polk was a wanted man driving a stolen car, and the less attention he drew, the better.
“Any place to eat?”
“Cafe. You must’ve passed her a few blocks back, way you were driving.”
“Thanks.” Saying it kind of flat.
As Polk began to walk, he adjusted the gun in his belt for strolling instead of driving. Passing two of the cars ahead of him for servicing, he automatically glanced at their steering wheels. Both had their keys still in the ignition.
Despite the temperature, Polk smiled, talking softly to himself. “Well, well. Old Sid tries to hold me up, leastways I can get myself some substitute transportation.”
Heading south toward the cafe, he noticed keys in the ignition of most every parked car on his side of the street and felt his smile getting wider. “My kind of town, Bibby is.”
“Afternoon.”
As the screened door slapped closed behind him, Polk looked at the woman who’d spoken. She was dressed in one of those old-fashioned waitress outfits and a bulky apron. Chubby, with brassy hair and too much makeup, her nametag read “Lurlene.” Polk thought about how convenient it was, everybody sporting their names for him, but he wondered how come they needed to, since in a town of 327, you’d think everybody would know each other. “Maybe their way of remembering who they are themselves,” thought Polk, and laughed.
“What’s so funny,” said Lurlene. Not sassy, just curious-like.
“Nothing.” Polk slid onto one of the chrome stools, resting his elbows on the Formica counter under a ceiling fan that might have been put up there in the year one. He glanced around the cafe. Old skinny couple — wearing sweaters, dear Lord — in one of the booths, young momma and her yard-ape in another. Four stools away, the only other customer at the counter was a fat fart pushing sixty, his rump overhanging the seat cushion, a fraying straw Stetson angled back on his head.
“Get you something?”
Polk looked at Lurlene. “Coffee. And a menu.”
She gave him a piece of orange paper, the items hand-writ on it, then poured some coffee from a pot into a white porcelain cup with a million little cracks on its surface, like a spider web.
“Lurlene, honey?” said the fat fart.
“Yes, Chief?”
Polk froze as she moved with the coffee pot to the other end of the counter. Then Polk, as casual as he could, kind of scoped out the man who might be a police.
Talking to Lurlene like she was a schoolgirl, but wanting to change a twenty. Polk noticed there was no gun on his belt. Maybe the fire chief? Un-unh. As the fat fart turned, Polk could see a peace officer’s badge on the khaki shirt. Now what kind of damn fool wears a badge without toting something to back it up?
Lurlene came toward Polk, pawing under the counter for what turned out to be her pocketbook. Opening it, she shook her head. “Sorry, Chief. And I know there’s not enough in the register yet.”
Polk looked up at the clock on the wall. 1:15 in the P.M. Must do one hell of a business, not enough change in the drawer after lunchtime to so much as cash a twenty. Briefly, he thought about helping the lawman out, and almost laughed again.
“Well,” said the chief, “I’ll just ask Mary over to the bank. Be right back.”
Polk watched the fat fart take about thirty seconds to make it off his stool and waddle out the door toward the yellow-brick building across the street.
Lurlene spoke to the back of Polk’s head. “Decide on what you’ll be having?”
He turned his face toward her. “Hamburger, medium. Fries.”
“You got it.”
Lurlene went through a swinging door, and he could hear her voice repeating his order. Left her pocketbook open on the counter, in plain view and an arm’s reach from a total stranger.
When the waitress came back out, Polk said, “Hey, you forgot something here.”
“What else you want?” Again not sassy, now just confused.
“It’s not what I want.” Polk gestured, feeling charitable. “Your pocket-book. Shouldn’t be leaving it out like that.”
Lurlene laughed and waved him off. “Oh, that’s all right. Bibby’s the safest little town in Texas.”