“You got that Olds ready?” It was the fat manager, standing in the open bay door.

“Just about,” said Stewart, who had balanced and rotated the tires and was now tightening the lugs.

“The blue-hair’s waiting.”

“Said I was near done.”

Stewart looked out the door. The manager was already waddling back to his office. Out by the pumps, Martini was talking to a big guy wearing a suit and hat, the gas line going into his old-man’s Dodge. The big guy had a sleepy set of eyes, and his hair was cut real short. You’d think he was military from the first glance. But Stewart had been around enough to know different. This guy was a cop.

Stewart wasn’t surprised. Dominic Martini knew most of the cops in the neighborhood. It was like a game he played, knowing their names. He’d been hanging around precinct houses, watching them, since he was a kid.

Dumb shit, thought Stewart. It was like he looked up to them. Imagine, looking up to a cop.

Soon after, a squad car drove into the lot with two uniforms, colored and a white guy, in the front seat. The driver, the white guy, pulled up near the plainclothesman’s Dodge.

Stewart said, “What the fuck.”

FRANK VAUGHN LIKED to get out of his car and stretch while the young man at the Esso station gassed up his car. This one had been working here on and off for many years.

On his shirt, the name Dom was stitched onto a patch. There was a long period there when this Dom had been gone. Vaughn guessed he had done an active tour. He had the look of someone the government would snatch. He sure wasn’t college-deferment material, and he was no rich man’s son. Probably a high school dropout to boot. But plenty big enough to be a soldier. When Vaughn used to come here years earlier, the kid was full of piss and vinegar. Knew Vaughn was a cop and was a smart-ass about it, too. Now it looked like all that attitude had drained right out of his eyes.

“Don’t fill it all the way,” said Vaughn, who was admiring a shiny, tricked-out Plymouth Belvedere parked alongside the garage. “Leave some room for the tiger.”

“Huh?”

“Your sign says ‘Put a tiger in your tank.’”

“Oh, yeah,” said Dom, like he didn’t get the joke. More likely, he heard the same crack ten times a day.

A squad car pulled into the lot. Vaughn knew the occupants. Peters, the Ivy Leaguer, and the colored rookie, Derek Strange. The white knight and his black partner, crisp as a newly minted bill, part of the new look of the MPD. To Vaughn, it seemed like more of a publicity stunt than anything practical. Peters was a high-profile uniform who sometimes got his picture in the papers. Put him next to a colored guy, a good-looking one who could speak in full sentences, to make some sort of point. This is the face of your future po-lice officer.

Vaughn felt that the MPD was hiring black cops too quickly, with little regard for their qualifications. In theory, it was a good idea to have coloreds policing colored citizens. But Vaughn was not sure that he or the department was ready for the change. Like everything else rushing by him these past few years, it seemed to be happening too fast.

This young man was all right, though. Hell, he was Alethea’s son, so that wasn’t any kind of surprise.

The Ford stopped on the other side of the pump and idled. Derek Strange was on the passenger side, his arm resting on the lip of the open window.

“Detective Vaughn,” said Strange.

“How you fellas doin’ today?” said Vaughn.

“We’re about off shift.”

“And here I am, just gettin’ on. You need somethin’?”

“Just sayin’ hello. You looked kinda lonely, standing out here.”

“Thanks for your concern.”

The pump jockey turned and had a glance at Strange. Their eyes locked for a moment, and then the jockey looked away.

Strange recognized him. Martini, the teenager from Billy’s neighborhood who he’d hung with a couple of times back when they were boys. A JD-lookin’ kid, on the mean side, had a little brother who was kind, which this one probably mistook for weak. They were all together that day when Strange had been popped at Ida’s for trying to boost a padlock, nine years back.

Strange didn’t acknowledge Martini. He didn’t look like he wanted him to. Looked like he’d fallen some off that high horse of his. Strange let him be. Strange’s father had always told him, Don’t be kickin’ a man when he’s down. Ain’t no good reason for it, he’d said. Wrong as it was, though, Strange had to admit it felt good, wearing his clean uniform, looking at Martini, grease all over his.

“Your mother all right?” said Vaughn.

“She’s fine,” said Strange with a tone of finality. It was plain to Vaughn that Strange was asking him to say no more.

“All right, then,” said Vaughn. “You fellas keep your eyes open out there.”

“Have a good one, Detective,” said Peters, who then put the Ford in gear and drove out of the lot.

Martini replaced the pump handle in its holster. “That’ll be five.”

“Here,” said Vaughn, handing over the bill.

Vaughn walked over to the beautiful red Plymouth parked beside the garage. He studied the car. The owner had named it Bernadette, most likely for his girl. Well, thought Vaughn, young men do stupid things when it comes to young women. Vaughn himself had a tattoo on his shoulder that read “Olga,” the word on a banner flowing across a heart. She had been his girlfriend when he’d had the tattoo done one drunken night in a parlor overseas, twenty-four years earlier. After he gotten it, he’d gone into a whorehouse next door and spent the rest of his leave money on a skinny little girl who called him Fwank, had a shaved snatch, and liked to laugh.

Vaughn walked to the open bay door of the garage. A mechanic, farm-boy big, was lowering an Olds to the cement floor.

“That your Belvedere out here?” said Vaughn.

“Yeah,” said Stewart, not even bothering to look at Vaughn. He was breathing through his mouth as he worked. Vaughn put him in his late twenties. A greaser, not too bright, whose time had already passed him by.

“Nice sled,” said Vaughn.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“It just caught my eye. I’m a Mopar man myself.”

“Huh,” said Stewart. It was more of a grunt than a response.

Friendly type, thought Vaughn. Okay, then, fuck you, too.

He walked back to his own car, a ’67 Polara with cat-eye taillights. It only held a 318 under the hood, not much horse for the weight. Everything on it was stock, straight off the lot at Laurel Dodge. Nothing like the young man’s Plymouth, a head-turner and a genuine rocket. But the Polara was plenty sporty for a man who was watching fifty coming up in the rearview mirror. It was a pretty car.

Vaughn lit a cigarette as he drove out of the Esso lot and headed for the station. Sunday was a good shift. Not too much happening, usually. Maybe he’d have a free hour. Enough time to visit his girl.

COMING OUT OF the Esso, Strange and Peters responded to a call, a domestic dispute down on Ogelthorpe. Peters told the dispatcher that they’d take it and got them on their way.

“We parked here?” said Strange.

“There ain’t no hurry, rook.”

“You’re drivin’ the limit.”

Peters checked the speedometer. “So I am.”

Peters knew that domestics usually worked themselves out before the police arrived. Cops who had been around for a while weren’t in any hurry to jump into a conflict between a man and a woman, not if they didn’t have to.

“Detective Hound Dog,” said Peters, giving the Ford a little extra gas as he hit the hill on 14th. “He knows your mother?”

“From work,” said Strange.

“I guess Vaughn gets those choppers of his cleaned real regular.”

“I guess he does,” said Strange.

Strange had told Peters early on that his mother worked reception in a dental office. He was instantly ashamed of himself for doing so and wondered why he had. Now he had to keep up the lie.