The Quick Stop

From my unpublished novel, "The Innocent."

Alma Norris inherited the Quick Stop gas station and grocery store when her father was killed by an armed robber around the time I flamed out at the cop shop. The place was a regular 10-7 location for police officers because the coffee was always free and Alma, then her father’s employee, was a knock-out.

Since his death, stress, a sedentary lifestyle, and access to an inventory of junk food had put on the pounds. I still saw the bathing beauty behind the tired blue eyes. We shared “Last Man Standing Syndrome,” the realization that you were the only survivor of your generation, without kids or siblings to lean on. A gym membership and a little self-discipline in the potato chip isle could open up procreational possibilities for Alma, a topic I occasionally suggested, and she always ducked.

The Paloma Quick Stop became the address of record on my PI license, a mail drop for my few financial obligations and a public meeting place for conversations with clients. That’s Alma’s cell number you’ll find on my business card. The Quick Stop doesn’t have a land line. Neither does the salt box house her father left her. So, she simply says, “Hello,” whenever the phone rings and personalizes the conversation when she figures out who is calling and why.

I was barely through the door when Alma started her info dump. “Layla says you left your running shoes at the gym this morning. She’s not working for Rich tonight and would be glad to bring them, and a bottle of wine over sometime after seven. Jessica says Joshua Fletcher has a formal contract out for your assassination. And Michelle Pryor has called four times wanting to know what progress you have made in your search for her daughter.”

I grabbed an extra-large paper cup and headed for the Coke Icee machine. “Broken again, Chase,” Alma opined. “Got time to fix it for me?”

I fished a toolbox from under the soft drink counter and selected a flathead screwdriver from its contents. “Did Layla call more than once?”

“No.”

“Damn. That means she is assumptive and will be waiting for me when I get home.”

“Did you hear anything else I said, Chase? There are guys looking to kill you. Everyone knows this is your hangout. They will probably miss you and shoot me.”

I ignored her, popping the top off the Icee machine. Another bad fuse. A piece of an old extension cord in the toolbox served as my temporary replacement kit. “What do you know about Angela Pryor, Alma? Santiago said El Syndicato scooped her up because he was misbehaving.”

Alma shuddered. “A miscalculation that got him snuffed.”

I pulled a five-inch slice from the roll of masking tape Alma used to hold the florescent Power Ball sign together behind the cash register. That would secure the wire across the fuse terminals for now.

“What do people say about the nurse? Is she the innocent civilian her brother made her out to be?”

Alma’s tired face broke into a smile as the machine whirred back to life. “Did you fix it the right way, Chase? Or will I find an electrical fire has burned the place to the ground in the morning?”

“The girl, Alma. What’s her rep?”

“You know what I know, Chase. She was an honor student. Good runner on the track team. Saved a couple of bleeders after some drive-by shootings and decided she had the stomach for a medical career. Nursing degree from Paloma University and a valued employee at Paloma General.”

I stuck my cup under the Coke spigot. It burped lukewarm liquid. “No trouble at all?”

“A couple of questionable boyfriends. But who among us hasn’t kissed some toads while searching for our prince?”

A customer cashed out a six pack and two lottery scratch-offs. I waited until Alma processed his credit card. They were often declined. “Looks like you’ll have to dump some spoiled Icee inventory, young lady. Disinfect and reload. Want me to hang around and do that for you?”

My administrative assistant swallowed a laugh. “And keep Layla waiting for you at Chez Murray? No way. I’ll call a real electrician in the morning. Thanks for keeping me in business until he shows up.”

“I’m serious, Alma. I’m happy to hang out and help.”

She pointed to the freezer. “Select a Lean Cuisine and get the hell out. I don’t want an Organization wanna-be to get a make on you and shoot up my windows. You’ll be safer at the junkyard anyway. Gang bangers avoid mean looking dogs.”

I grabbed a box of Chicken and Broccoli Alfredo pasta, added some pop from the fountain. (Don’t call it soda in my presence.) Alma regarded me with suspicion as I plopped the take down on the counter. “What do I owe, Madame awesome?”

When you own a gas station and snack shop, you get robbed. After enough of those encounters you learn to peel every emotion from your face and stop caring about the money in the till. Alma’s expression morphed into robbery mode. “Trouble. Six-six, about two-ninety. Crew cut. Scar over the right eye. No weapon. He’s not here for me, so he must be here for you.”

“Coming this way?”

Alma nodded. I grabbed a newly filled coffee pot from its heating element and swung it where I expected Knucklehead’s melon to be. Occasionally, I get it right. The glass shattered against his temple, splattering the searing contents over his head and into his eyes. The bad guy reflexively covered his face, giving me the perfect opening for a side kick to the stomach. My assailant crumpled to the tile floor.

I snaked an arm around his neck in a sleeper hold and addressed my savior. “Does he have friends?”

“Nope. Came in on foot. Apparently alone.”

I dragged the unconscious knucklehead toward the door. “And that’s how he’ll leave. Sorry about the mess, Alma. Sure I can’t help you clean up and reimburse you for the coffee?”

“If you ever pay up, I’ll have a stroke, Chase. Go. Unless you want to call Mama Pryor before you leave.”

She knew how to motivate me. “Call 9-1-1,” I said. “Tell them there’s an unconscious man in your parking lot.”

I blew her a kiss and was out the door with my two-hundred-ninety-pound payload before she could thrust her cell phone into my hands.