Serial Saturday: The Figurine, Part 18
Temperance smoked her way quickly through three cigarettes as they drove out of town, hunched on the passenger seat and staring out the window as the landscape changed from fields to trees and back to fields again. Jefferson glanced at her occasionally as he drove, wondering just how unsettled she was. He felt pretty damned unsettled himself; he’d managed to force himself through a quick meal and a little misdirection at the diner while Temperance waited in the car, but it hadn’t been easy.
Finally, she sighed and rubbed a hand over her face. “Why didn’t I just shoot him?”
“Woulda caused a ruckus we didn’t need,” Jefferson said. It was just one of the possible reasons he could have given, along with the notion that maybe he hadn’t actually done anything to deserve it and half a dozen others, but it wasn’t the real reason, and the look Temperance shot him made it clear she didn’t think so either. He had a feeling Clyburne deserved a bullet as much as anyone, and they could have managed to keep it quiet. They had before.
But Clyburne was more than just another mad dog used by folks trying to use or watch the Sciribath. Jefferson had seen plenty of those before, but Clyburne was different.
“Hell,” Jefferson muttered, “maybe we oughta just step aside and let Clyburne and Glass fight it out.”
“Can’t do that,” Temperance said.
Jefferson sighed. “I know.” He lit a cigarette of his own. “Reckon we oughta try and call Chipper soon?”
“Yes,” Temperance said. “Yes, we should.” Her relief at the thought was obvious in her voice, and Jefferson discovered that he found that annoying.
“Need to fill up soon anyway,” he said.
They came upon a filling station about twenty minutes later, sitting alone on a crossroads surrounded by what looked like abandoned farm land. It had a payphone booth sitting outside, leaning slightly to one side. Jefferson pulled up at the single pump, and a thin, balding man in filthy coveralls ambled out of the rickety building toward them.
Jefferson glanced at the old pump–obviously not one of the new style that shut off when the tank was full. “Ten gallons oughta do her,” he said. “That phone work?”
The man made a barely-perceptible nod before turning to unhook the pump’s nozzle.
“Better make it quick,” Jefferson said, glancing upward. “Looks like that rain’s finally coming.”
Temperance nodded and slid out of the car. As she made her way toward the booth, Jefferson got out the car himself. He leaned back, stretching, as the attendant pumped gas.
“Think the rain’ll break the heat?” he asked, looking off toward the dark gray clouds. There was no reply, and after a moment he glanced over at the attendant. The man made no reply, simply staring dully at his own dim reflection in the shiny black Ford as the gas gurgled its way into the tank. Jefferson shrugged and looked over at the booth, where Temperance was talking into the phone.
The first fat drop of rain hit his wrist. A moment later another hit the roof of the Ford with a hollow thump. Jefferson glanced over at the phone booth again, and reached for the door.
“T’shuk G’had,” said the man at the pump.
Jefferson froze. Except he hadn’t, not completely. His hand was on his pistol, like it snapped there by magnetism. It was even the right hand, the one that had been on the door handle–he’d known enough on some level not to go for the missing Colt.
“What?” he said after a moment.
The man was staring fixedly at Jefferson now. “Ten gallons.” He replaced the nozzle, still looking at Jefferson. The rain started drumming down, a sudden assault. The two of them stood there staring at one another, getting soaked, while the door on the other side of the car opened then slammed shut.
Without taking his hand off the Smith and Wesson, Jefferson reached into his back pocket and fished out his wallet. He pulled out two dollar bills one-handed and held them out between two fingers. “Keep the change,” he said, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the pounding rain. The attendant took the money and tucked it into his pocket, and the two stood staring at each other for several seconds. Finally, the man turned and jogged back into the little building nearby. Jefferson swung into the car and slammed the door.
“What was that?” Temperance asked. The super .38 was out of her purse and in her hand.
“Maybe nothing,” Jefferson replied, and hit the ignition.
“Maybe nothing?” Temperance asked.
“Don’t know,” Jefferson said shortly. “Not sure about that fella.” He flicked on the headlamps in an attempt to pierce the rain a bit. After a few seconds, Temperance slid the pistol back into her purse.
“Well, you got wet enough anyway,” she said. “I thought I had it bad, making that run from the booth.”
“You get hold of Chipper?”
“No. No answer,” Temperance said. “I don’t like it.”
“Not like her,” Jefferson said. “I mean, from what I know. The two of us never spent a lot of time chatting over the phone.”
“It isn’t like her to be hard to contact at a time like this,” Temperance said. She took off her damp hat with a disgusted noise, and rooted in her purse for makeup. She reached up to twist the rear view mirror for a better look at her face and paused.
“Jefferson,” she said. “We’ve got company.”
Copyright © 2012 SM Williams