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“Oh, I’m sure you can,” he says as he walks to the counter and places his meaty hands flat down on top of it. “You said something about Cal?” he asks, watching me closely.
His voice is familiar to me, though I can’t quite place it. I rack my brain as I say, “Uh, sure. He’s up at the diner with most of the rest of the town.”
“Is that a fact?” he says, sounding amused. “So old Cal Blue came back, did he?”
“I’m sorry, do you know him?” I feel cold.
“Not personally, though I’ve heard a lot about him,” Fish Eyes says, a small smile on his face. “Seems a lot of people around here are talking about him.”
I school my face so it’s blank when I shrug. “He’s all right.”
Fish Eyes laughs. “I’m sure he is. And you must be Benji, right?” “Yes.”
“And you run the station here, right?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Big Eddie’s Gas and Convenience. Quite the mouthful.”
“Can I help you with something?” I want him to leave. I wonder briefly if my thread is showing, if Cal is racing toward the store. I hope not. The moments when threads show during the day, I’ve had to calm him so his wings aren’t visible. I don’t know what would happen if they exploded out of him in the middle of Rosie’s Diner. Probably not the best thing to happen. I will myself to calm.
“I’m sure you probably could,” Fish Eyes says. “Tell me, Benji. What does a guy your age get up to in a small town like this?”
“Mostly work,” I say with a false smile. I can almost place his voice, but the answer dances away. “I own the store, so I don’t have time for much else.”
“Well, as long as you’re staying out of trouble, then you should be okay,” Fish Eyes says. “Would hate to think anything would happen to you. Or Cal. Good old Cal Blue, right? That his name?”
“You ask a lot of questions, mister.”
He laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard. “I am a curious man,” he agrees, wiping his eyes. “I like to know everything I can, if you catch my drift.”
“Can’t say that I do,” I say, trying to sound bored. Stay away, Cal. Stay away.
He looks behind me. “Why don’t you give me a pack of them Marlboro 100s and we can call ourselves square.”
I turn, an idea forming in my head. I reach up and grab the smokes. “Got your ID on you?”
He looks taken aback. “I’m flattered, Benji, but I think I’m a bit above eighteen.”
“Federal law requires me to swipe a driver’s license through the reader every time I sell cigarettes. Don’t want to get dinged by the state. They do random tests.” I shrug like it is out of my hands. “For all I know, you could be an agent doing an inspection. Haven’t had one in a while.”
“Do I look like a government agent to you?”
“You look like a lot of things to me. Got that ID so I can ring you up?”
He narrows his eyes as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. He opens it and slides an Oregon driver’s license across the counter. I snap it up, trying to look at ease. I turn to the ID reader behind me and slide it through. I glance down at the screen on the reader. VERIFIED, it says. JACK TRAYNOR DOB 11/14/1959.
Traynor.
Where have I heard—
No. Oh fuck.
The gunman: All I wanted was a fucking hit, man! Traynor told me I could get it, that fucking bastard!
Then—
Mayor Walken: You seem to forget, Traynor, that you are operating in my town, with my permission, which makes me your boss.
