Dire Means (5 page)

“I’m Mark. I heard your buddy call you Ty,” he said, craning his neck to see Ty in the rearview mirror. Ty stared back and only nodded. Mark felt a hint of danger, but he brushed it off after considering that the drive was short and at no point would he be alone with Ty. Besides, Ty didn’t look strong. He was wiry, his scruffy beard was unkempt. His bad grooming didn’t match the clean sweatpants, new running shoes and blue windbreaker he wore.

Ty’s attitude problem only strengthened Mark’s remorse for getting involved. Was there a chance that these men really needed gasoline? In a city where so many people had a true need for financial help, the thought of two men leveraging the kindness of people to con cash irked Mark.

During the rest of the drive to the gas station on Wilshire at 5th, Mark made no more attempts at conversation with Ty. He looked back over the seat only once and saw Ty staring at him with the same steely gaze he had seen in his rearview mirror. The odor of alcohol exuded from Ty. Mark expected, but couldn’t detect, any scent of gasoline from the white canister that sat on the back seat.

As they turned into the gas station, Mark anticipated what Ty might do. He’ll probably ask for cash again and try to ditch me, he thought. Ty had offered to walk back to their dry Chevy, carrying the canister. There was no way that this bony man would be able to lug a full, five-gallon gas canister back to the car. Mark decided that he would insist on putting gasoline into the canister, but would only give him a gallon and a half or two at most so that Ty couldn’t require a ride back. Besides, Ty had promised to walk back.

After he parked at the pump, Mark got out fast, keeping a close eye on his passenger. A new wave of concern swept over him when Ty didn’t immediately get out. Instead, he remained in the back seat with the door closed, ducking his head as if to hide from view and then raising it again to look around at cars parked in the station’s lot—searching.

Why hadn’t he just pressed down on his accelerator, shrinking these guys in his rearview mirror until they vanished from his life and, soon after, his memory? The safest scenario, in hindsight, would have been to call the con from within his locked car when the traffic light was green. Call it cowardly—it would have been the safer decision. He could have shouted through his window that their con was obvious and threatened to call the police. But in that case, he was certain they would simply flip him off and then hit another corner of the city where another traffic signal would freeze another set of naïve or intimidated contributors for a bounty of cash.

The scenario that had the potential to be most satisfying was the one Mark chose: exposing them to their faces—irrefutably. But such satisfaction required proportionate risk and when he saw these cons, and realized the cash they were raking in by feigning need, the price seemed worth it.

He rationalized that he would have been miserable if he had done nothing. The stinging regret of inaction was fresh and had rotted his insides for weeks. Since Carlos’s suicide, he wrestled his thoughts away from “what if” scenarios every day. Fantasies of intervening in time to save his friend interrupted his concentration many times each day. Mark felt shame for being a best friend who didn’t do enough to see and end his friend’s spiral into fatal discouragement.

Now, faced with this con, he was driven to take action to avoid more regret. It could result in a small, yet significant triumph after weeks of self-punishment.

He left his keys in the ignition and kept his driver’s door open so he could jump back in for a quick exit if need be. He swiped a debit card at the pump’s keypad—all while watching Ty, still crouched in the back seat.

He leaned into the car and said, “A gallon or two ought to get you going, right?”

Ty opened his door and got out, pulling the gas can out behind him. He circled behind the car, checking in all directions and dropped the can, a few inches from the concrete by Mark’s feet. It bounced and teetered a few times emitting a hollow plastic sound like a child’s toy drum. Ty looked in every direction except Mark’s.

“You need a rest room?” Mark asked, as he inserted the pump nozzle into the canister. He knew that Ty didn’t need a restroom. He knew Ty was up to nothing good.

“Naa,” Ty said. He looked toward Wilshire. Mark expected to see the old Chevy drive in at any moment.

Mark squeezed the pump’s trigger. The reddish unleaded fuel pooled at the bottom and began rising up the sides of the canister.

“How far you going?” Mark said.

“Far.” Ty glanced down at the canister and nodded. “Real far.”

“Well, it’s not much, but I hope this little bit will at least get you guys unstuck and part way there,” Mark said.

Ty sucked his teeth and mumbled, “Whatever.” Mark’s hand let go of the pump’s trigger and the flow of gasoline stopped with barely five inches of gasoline at the bottom of the canister. He pulled the nozzle out and shoved it back into the pump’s holster. He was finished with this game.

“Whatchu doin’?” Ty said, contorting his face at Mark. “That ain’t enough!”

But Mark had seen enough. He knew Ty really wanted more time, not more gasoline. The only way to call out this con was to do it directly. They were, after all, in public, near a busy street amidst three other cars getting gasoline at the station’s other islands. Given Ty’s size, what was the worst thing that could happen?

“Come on, man,” Mark said. He pointed down at the canister. “You don’t really need gas do you?” He chuckled in an exaggerated laugh to induce Ty into an honest confession.

Ty’s eyes narrowed and he stepped closer to Mark. “Say what?” he said through clenched teeth. He rose up on his toes to look over the gas pump toward the street.

“You’re not fooling anybody,” Mark said.

Ty turned sideways to Mark and with his concealed hand he pulled a black revolver from under his sweatpants. Ty held the gun low, aiming it at Mark’s crotch for a moment and then lowered it to his side with a straight arm. He used Mark’s car and the gas pump to obstruct its view from the other people gassing up nearby. At about five feet away, Mark didn’t feel close enough to do anything about the gun and he was sure Ty could raise and fire it before Mark could take even a step toward him.

Mark’s instinct was to step away—to run, and in his normal state of mind, he would have. This was a worst-case scenario come true. But something about Ty, even while holding a gun, failed to intimidate Mark. Perhaps it was Mark’s recent plunge into depression mixed with his anger about this con that had numbed his fear and affected his judgment. On the drive to the gas station, Mark had imagined being more afraid if Ty were to assault him, but now he felt more annoyed than afraid—more irritated than intimidated.

“Hey, listen, whatever you want, man,” Mark said as he raised his hands, showing calm, collected surrender. “I was just asking if you really need gas.” He studied Ty to see if a subdued tone and agreeable words could make the gun go away.

“I’ll tell you what I really need,” Ty said through clenched teeth. “I need you to step away from the car, bitch.”

“Bitch? Oh, now I’m a bitch?” Mark said, startled by his own indignation while facing a man who held a gun. “I stop to help you, drive you, buy you gasoline and now I’m a bitch for it?”

Ty, surprised that Mark had neither fled, nor obeyed, raised the gun from his side and pointed it at Mark’s chest. He checked over his shoulders, cocked the gun and leaned back slightly to peer between two pumps—looking to see if any of the other gas station customers had seen him with the gun yet. They hadn’t. Each customer was fully involved with gassing up their cars or cleaning their windshields.

“If you wanna see Thanksgiving, bitch, back away from the car,” Ty said.

“No problem,” Mark said. He stepped up onto the elevated concrete slab on which the gas pumps sat. Ty eased past him and put one foot into the driver’s side door. He tossed the gun onto the passenger seat. From his vantage point, Mark saw the gun land and bounce next to his phone that he had forgotten to take from the car. When Ty sat in the driver’s seat and began to pull the car door shut, Mark leapt, blocking the door from closing with his leg. He grabbed Ty by the collar of his windbreaker. Ty slapped the passenger seat with his hand, trying to grab the gun, but failed as Mark yanked him from the car, swinging him in a half circle so that Ty slammed into the car’s closed rear door. Ty grabbed Mark’s shirt and held on. Mark swung at him again and they spun holding each other’s clothing and fell to the ground behind the car. Mark landed on top and fought to stay there as Ty bucked and flailed like a rodeo bull to dislodge him. Ty was surprisingly strong for a man who looked so skinny.

Mark screamed, “I need some help here—somebody help!” as Ty continued to wriggle beneath him. Ty landed a blow to Mark’s mouth and that triggered something in Mark that neither one of them expected. Mark began swinging his fists down at Ty, pounding his face as he rode Ty’s waist. He felt pain in his fists as he landed solid blows to Ty’s head.

Ty blocked as many blows as he could and thrust his pelvis up, heaving Mark hard enough to throw him partially off. The sound of tearing fabric, grunts and flesh slapping concrete caught the attention of people nearby. Ty tried to crawl away, but Mark grabbed one of his legs and then the other. He hugged them. If he couldn’t whip Ty, he would at least hold him until someone stepped in to help.

Ty twisted and tried to kick, but Mark clamped down on Ty’s legs with all his strength.

Mark shouted again for someone to call the police as he began to sustain blows from Ty. He clasped Ty’s legs as tightly as he could until he felt a strong hand squeeze around the back of his belt. He felt a hard smack on the back of his neck and a hand squeezed his collar and pulled eight more inches of fabric into a huge fist. The hands lifted Mark up off the ground, shaking Ty free of Mark’s grip. It was Ty’s hulky accomplice who had run from the Chevy parked on the street to rescue his partner in crime. Ty got up, cussing at Mark and spitting blood. The hulk slammed Mark’s body down, knocking the wind out of him. Mark gasped for air.

“We ain’t through with you, bitch! We ain’t through!” Ty knelt back down and screamed right into Mark’s face with all the confidence of a stranded soldier who had just received more than enough reinforcement for rescue.

Mark called out for help again, but none came despite the spectators who had paused near the entrance of the gas station’s store and out by the street.

Mark wriggled to free himself, but his muscle-bound captor flipped him face up with ease. Mark saw the hulk’s face, gritting his teeth as he held Mark down by the neck. He saw the hulk’s arm pull away and then a fist returning. That ended the scuffle and his consciousness.

He wouldn’t remember the blow to his head, or the full-swing kicks to his ribs that Ty, moments later, inflicted to Mark’s limp body. He wouldn’t hear the hulk yelling at Ty to hurry and get in the car. He wouldn’t feel Ty slipping his hand into Mark’s back pocket and lifting his wallet, nor would he hear the squeal of his own Camry’s tires after Ty jumped into the driver’s seat for a second time, to flee.

§

Mark lay curled up beside a gas pump. He clutched his stomach with both hands. His left cheek was pressed against greasy asphalt caked with dirt and unleaded fuel drippings. A searing pain shot through his ribs with the slightest move of his torso.

He squeezed his eyes shut and heard the sound of traffic and footsteps and a small group of voices nearby. He concentrated on the voices to hear if any of them referred to him. No voice was distinct until a woman’s pierced the rest as she announced, “I’ve already called the police.”

He moved his arm and a sharp burning pain radiated from his chest. He grimaced and lay still, releasing a slow moan. Breathing hurt.

“He ain’t goin’ nowhere,” a man said a few steps away. “He’s down for the count.”

Mark heard the sound of footsteps approaching. He cracked his eyes open and saw the base of an unleaded fuel pump. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. He heard a shuffle of feet near his head and then more voices.

He licked his lips and his tongue drew in blood mixed with grit and gasoline. He rolled onto his back and turned his head toward a semi-circle of about twelve spectators. One of them, a man with a gas station uniform, stepped forward to straddle Mark’s upper body. The man reached down to help him up. Mark shook his head and rolled to his side.

“You really shouldn’t move until medics get here to check you,” a female voice said.

Between ankles and legs of spectators, he saw more people approaching from the street and the gas station’s mini-mart.

“You okay, dude?” a young man called out.

Mark held his breath and created enough pressure in his gut to bear the pain of sitting up. When he did, he gasped and slouched forward and panted. His head nodded slightly with each breath. He heard the faint whine of distant sirens.

Some of the spectators whispered to one another and pointed east on Wilshire Boulevard, the direction his assailant had driven his Camry.

The gas station attendant said, “Beggars used to just ask for money. Now you never know if they’re gonna just pop you for your cash and car like you just got popped. I kick ‘em off the station property, but you can’t stop ‘em all—especially around here.”

He held out a hand to help, but Mark refused it again, using his own hands to push himself back against the gas pump. When some of the spectators saw Mark sit up unassisted, they realized the drama was ending, turned and walked away.