The Easy Way Out

13

Sitting in his parked car overlooking Simon's dark lot, Blake crouched, his chin dipped into the neckline of his black hoodie, his fingers tight like they were welded to the steering wheel. He drew a series of deep breaths to calm his turbulent GI tract.

Two customers wearing trucker's caps exited the diner, their bellies bulging with deep-fried comfort food. Through the windshield, he watched them casually saunter across the parking lot toward a pickup truck. Before getting into their truck, one of the men removed a wet cigar butt from his mouth, hacked, then spit a glob of mucus onto the pavement. During moments like these, Blake wondered how anyone could believe that the creation of man was a miracle. Maybe more like an accident of coincidences, like the universe had cleared its throat.

The dashboard clock read: 9:29.

"Where is he?" He tapped his fingers faster.

Finally, McQuaid emerged from the shadows wheezing, trudging across the street toward the diner. Blake slunk lower in his seat watching him cross the parking lot then climb the steps to the front door.

Blake pulled out of the parking spot then drove across the street into Simon's Used Cars lot. He killed the headlights, cruising past rows of polished pre-owned vehicles to the crest of the driveway where he braked, pausing for a moment to survey the garage in the dark pit below. It was like he was looking at an underexposed photograph, like the cement block building and parking lot were frozen in a single moment of time, artificially still. He tapped the accelerator with his toe. The car crept forward then the nose dropped, gravity pulling the Honda faster down the steep incline. He circled the building, past McQuaid's parked car, around to the shop entrance where he stopped about fifteen feet from the garage door. He aimed the remote control, watching the screen of his laptop. His computer beeped. On the screen: INPUT DETECTED.

The rollers ground against the rails as the garage door rose, screeching like a banshee.

With shaking hands, he stretched a ski mask over his head then squeezed his hands into a pair of gloves. He snatched a screwdriver and a flashlight from the floor.

It occurred to him last week while working at his house in Beechview, while he was replacing a doorknob on an old bathroom door. He'd walked through the break-in scenario dozens of times in his mind, but this was the first time he'd ever considered the strong possibility that the office door would be locked. And so he brought the screwdriver with him in case he needed to remove a doorknob plate or jimmy the lock.

Blake slipped into the garage, which reeked of gasoline, grease, and tension. Before he flicked on the flashlight, he stumbled into a tool chest, knocking a set of wrenches bouncing and clanging against the concrete floor. He held his breath in the dark, in the ominous silence. Then, once he was satisfied that he was alone, he pointed his flashlight at the floor and turned it on.

Hugging the wall, he crept through the garage toward the hallway, his eyes gradually adjusting to the darkness. He peered into the black corridor, like staring down a mine shaft at night. No matter how hard he strained his eyes, it was impossible to see more than three feet in front of his face. He froze when he heard faint male voices. He couldn't determine where they were coming from until the frosted glass window in the manager's office door washed with light. He shut off the flashlight and flung himself backward out of the mouth of the hallway. He hit the wall behind him so hard, the screwdriver flew from his grasp, clattering across the cement floor.

He dove to the floor on hands and knees, desperately sweeping his fingers across the cold concrete floor for the screwdriver. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting whoever was in the office to burst from the hallway, weapon in hand. He couldn't risk giving away his location by turning on the flashlight. Through the open garage door, some thirty feet away, the Honda idled. Voices in the hallway snapped his head back, his eyes bulging. He blinked away the stinging sweat that had rolled from his brow, blurring his vision. He gave up the search for the screwdriver, lurching forward toward the Honda, gulping air as he stumbled, bolting out of the garage. He flung open the door, jumped behind the wheel, and squeezed the button on the remote. As the metal ribbed door rattled downward, he was already rounding the corner of the building and mashing the gas pedal to accelerate up the steep driveway.

He watched the rearview mirror intently as he made his escape, relieved that no one was tailing him.

########

A half-hour later, in his apartment, Blake peeked through the mini blinds at the street below. His contagious anxiety was infecting Rachel.

"Come on." Damon pushed a beer at him. "Have a beer."

"I don't want a beer."

Rachel paced. "McQuaid was still in the office?"

"No, I saw him go into the diner." Blake gave her a quick look. "It was definitely him."

"So who was in the office?"

He rubbed his eyes then shrugged.

"Didn't you see him?"

"I heard voices and saw lights in the office."

"Lights? But nobody chased you out?"

"I said I didn't see anybody." He followed a passing car with his eyes.

"You don't think that's strange?" She made a face like her brain hurt from trying to connect the mismatched pieces. "Somebody hears the garage door, maybe sees your flashlight, and doesn't come out to investigate?"

Damon nodded. "She's right, dude. Those doors sound like a freight train, am I right?"

"He probably thought it was McQuaid coming back from the diner."

Damon shook his head. "McQuaid isn't gonna come through the garage. He's got keys to the front door."

"Maybe he forgot them."

"No way."

She shot Damon a sideways glance.

Damon wiped the beer from the corners of his grinning mouth when it occurred to him. "It was his TV."

Rachel turned. "What?"

"McQuaid probably left the TV on when he went to the diner."

"There's a TV in the office?" Unconvinced, Blake watched the street below.

Damon's laugh sputtered between his lips and his beer can. "What do you think McQuaid's doing while he's counting down the minutes until meatloaf time? You think he's reading Shakespeare?"

"I don't know," Blake muttered.

"He's watching 'Gilligan's Island' or 'Family Feud' or some shit. Relax. You saw him go into the diner. You see any other cars in the parking lot?"

Blake shook his head.

"And those two scary dudes." He looked at Rachel for confirmation. "Couldn't have been them. They were at Booty's, right?"

"'Til just after ten," she said.

"I'm telling you, amigo. It's the fuckin' TV. "Dude, you spooked yourself." He drained the beer then started on the one he'd brought for Blake. "You know, now that I think about it, next week probably works even better."

"Huh?" Rachel narrowed her eyes.

"Playoffs start next week. That's big, big money." He took a long casual drink.

"I dropped my screwdriver in the garage," Blake said. "Couldn't find it."

Damon rolled his eyes. "Like anyone would give a fuck. There's probably a half dozen loose tools on that floor at any given time. Auto mechanics aren't exactly known for their tidy workplaces." He slurped his beer. "Chill, dude. You're gonna stroke out."

Rachel's eyes shifted from Damon to Blake who looked like he never wanted to go back in there. Sharing her thoughts would offer no comfort so she said nothing. She knew that if retribution was coming, it wouldn't arrive in the form of a conspicuous approach from the front street. Most likely, Pat and Karas would appear at the foot of their bed at three A.M.