The Easy Way Out

8

The hazy fluorescent light spilling through the plate glass windows of Tom's Diner lit the exterior of the aluminum building. Blake cruised slowly through the parking lot in search of a prime vantage point.

"Right there, right there." Damon pointed.

Blake backed his car into the suggested parking space beside a dingy sedan.

"Jesus, dude," said Damon. "You didn't say your car was this f'ed up."

"You think it sounds bad?"

"You think that's how cars are supposed to sound? And that burning smell? You never notice that?"

From their position, they had a clear view of Simon's Used Cars across the street. The office building was dark but down in the lower lot, the garage lights were on.

"Can you see anything?" Blake craned his neck.

"Nada."

"So, last week it was a couple minutes before nine," said Blake. "And the Tuesday before that, it was about 9:15 or 9:20."

Damon nodded. "Look. Here comes the hungry little troll."

Blake checked the time. 9:07.

They could barely make out McQuaid's pudgy form laboring up the steep driveway and trudging through the car lot. Out of breath, he crossed the street toward the diner and lumbered toward the front door like he had a chunk of marble hanging from a chain around his neck.

They crouched lower in their seats as McQuaid approached.

"He didn't see us, right?" Blake said.

Damon shook his head.

"You sure nobody else is down there?

"In the garage?"

Blake nodded.

"That cheap bastard isn't gonna pay somebody to babysit the money while he's up here stuffing his face."

Thirty-five minutes later, McQuaid exited the diner. He ambled across the street on his way back to the used car lot. When they saw him descending the driveway toward the garage, Blake started his car. A troublesome thumping noise from under the hood raised Damon's eyebrows.

"I'd have a fire extinguisher in this car if it was me."

########

An hour later, Blake sat on a barstool at Booty's, sipping his beer and trying to remain inconspicuous as he watched Pat and Karas across the bar.

Karas sucked the dressing from his thick fingers while chewing the final portion of his sandwich with a peculiar bovine side-to-side motion, which Blake suspected was likely due to a broken jaw that hadn't properly healed. That prominent mandible may have been fractured as a result of a fastball that Karas couldn't dodge back in his Little League days, but odds were that the cause was far more likely an on-the-job injury.

Pat swirled the ice cubes in his glass of bourbon, his eyes on Rachel. Several disturbing images drifted through Blake's mind while considering what gruesome event was commemorated by that permanent scar across Pat's cheek. He felt Blake's eyes and when he glanced in his direction, Blake bent his head, trying with all his might to blend in, to become wallpaper, unseen.

"Hey, gorgeous. How 'bout the check?" Pat downed the last mouthful of his drink.

"I'll get that for you." She went to the register located near Blake. Under her breath, she said, "I told you. A little after ten."

He consulted his phone. 10:14.

"Here you go, guys." She laid their check on the counter.

"You are a lucky man," Pat called across the bar to Blake. "A very lucky man." Several guys on barstools nodded in agreement.

Blake grinned and finished his beer.

"I'm closing tonight." She grumbled to her boyfriend. "Probably be late."

"See you when you get home."

########

Nearing 2 AM, Rachel did a final walk-through of the vacant bar, checking tables. She wiped the counter one last time, folded the towel, and tossed it into a bin. She entered the manager's office and found Lou behind his desk, draining his glass of vodka.

"Everybody gone?" he asked.

She leaned against the doorframe and yawned. "Yep. Just me and you."

He extended his arm, holding out his glass. "How 'bout gettin' me a refill?"

"I want my money."

"And I wanna 'nother drink."

"Gimme my money, Lou." She groaned. "I'm really tired."

He tipped his head back, sucking the diluted vodka from the melted ice cubes.

"They say most people drink to make their friends seem interesting," she said. "But in your case, you got no friends, so..."

"Friends are overrated." He swirled the cubes around the bottom of his glass.

"My money?"

He leered. "Those hotpants look great on you. And so would I." He laughed at his joke.

"Never gets old."

"C'mon. Try smiling for once."

Rachel gave him a wide, fake smile. She extended her hand. "About that money?"

"You know, Assistant Manager makes twice what you're makin'. You interested, Rachel?"

When he stood, she could see that his pants were unzipped.

"You're drunk, Lou."

"You're a college grad. You can add numbers. You interested or not?"

"In the job?"

"Hell, Teagan would get down on her knees and--"

"--Gimme my money, or this could get ugly."

"Is that a threat I hear?"

She sighed then turned for the door. "Fine. I'll take it out of the register."

"Wait. Hold up. I got your money." He drew an envelope from the desk drawer. "Don't get your panties in a  bunch. Here ya go."

She yanked it out of his hand then zipped up her jacket.

"Aren't you even gonna say thanks?"

"See you tomorrow," she replied through a yawn, making her way toward the exit. She stepped outside, immersing herself in the night air like slipping into a bathrobe that had been stored in a meat locker. Heading for her car in the vacant parking lot, she heard a voice.

"Help! Help me!... Please, somebody, help me!" A terrified man staggered off the street into the driveway, his clothes torn, his face glistening with blood. The look in his eyes, fear and desperation, cut right through her.

A shiny Lincoln Continental screeched into the lot behind him then lurched to a stop. Karas jumped out, threw the man to the pavement, and in a detached, workmanlike manner, swung brutal blows with a blackjack with chilling precision.

"I'll have it for you tomorrow," the man pleaded, clenching his jaw in pain.

"This is tomorrow," Karas replied.

"No, for real this time," the man cried out. "I promise."

A barbaric kick silenced him. He cupped a hand over his mouth, trying to protect teeth that were no longer there. Pat opened the rear door. "Get in there."

The man begged for mercy as they crammed him inside. "Don't you bleed on my seats," Karas warned, then slammed the back door shut.

Pat noticed Rachel in the shadows, frozen beside her Honda. Her heart seized at the flat, cruel look in his eyes.

"Don't you pity that man," he said. "He knows the rules."