Lost. Helen R. MyersЧитать онлайн книгу.
with what that means.”
She wiped her hands on the already filthy rag and shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans, then stepped over to the patrol car still in need of an oil change and lube job.
“Guess I could let her go for the thousand…if you threw in new tires for the ’73 to sweeten the deal.”
Michaele almost let out a whoop. She’d been wanting to get her hands on “Precious” since she was seventeen, but wasn’t about to admit anything of the kind to Pete. Instead she muttered, “Jeez, Louise. All right, already! Bring the title tomorrow along with those flats, and I’ll write you a check.”
“Cash.”
That would mean a trip to the bank, because she didn’t keep that kind of money around; it presented too much of a temptation to Buck, who could easily finish drinking himself into a grave on a fraction of the amount. “Okay, cash it is. I’ll hop over to the bank as soon as it opens in the morning.”
“And I’ll need a ride home.”
She shot Pete an irritated look. “Why don’t I just adopt you? Never mind,” she added, as he began to grin. “Okay, I’ll see that you get home. Now, please, go away and let me earn a nickel.”
Satisfied, Pete left, and Michaele went back to work. But no sooner did she start unscrewing the drain plug from the patrol car’s oil pan than a vehicle pulled up to the gas pumps. She listened for the sound of Buck’s shuffling steps. When he failed to budge, she called over her shoulder, “Customer!”
After several more seconds, she headed outside herself. “And people ask why I don’t smile more,” she grumbled under her breath.
Their customer was none other than Reverend George Dollar. Michaele’s mood went from soured to curdled. Of the twelve-hundred-seventy-something people currently calling Split Creek home, why did he have to be the one driving up?
She circled around the back of the white Escort wagon that the church had inherited several years ago and went straight to the gas tank. “Fill it, Reverend?” she called up front.
He leaned out the driver’s window and smiled into the sideview mirror. “Please, Michaele. I was beginning to wonder if anyone was around. You really do need to get that service bell repaired.”
“Uh-huh.”
The only thing wrong with it was that she’d disconnected the thing. Even when she manned the garage by herself, she would have to go blind and deaf before missing anyone pulling in.
Sliding the pump nozzle into the tank’s mouth, she glanced over the car into the station’s office-store area. As she’d suspected, her father was slumped on his throne again—whether asleep or unconscious, she couldn’t tell. What she could see, though, was that he hadn’t put the phone’s receiver back into the cradle.
She shook her head. And he insisted the crap he drank wasn’t pickling his brain?
“The windshield needs cleaning, Michaele.”
Sure it does.
Gritting her teeth, she latched the nozzle for automatic filling and reached for the squeegee soaking in the pail of cleaning liquid at the other end of the island. But she was burned. Damn it all, the old buzzard would have to be gumming the steering wheel to be bothered by the smudge or two on the otherwise sparkling windshield. No, he just wanted her stretched across his hood to get his cheap thrill for the day.
“I was sorry not to see you joining Faith at services Sunday.”
She briefly considered enlightening him. The only reason her younger sister went to church was that there were few other excuses to dress up in Split Creek without looking like a lost tourist, and Faith did like to dress up. Not Michaele, though; nor did she have the stomach to sit through any hypocritical sermons, let alone the kissy-huggy stuff that followed those gatherings. However, the businesswoman in her stopped her from being all-out rude to a customer—even a tightwad like George Dollar.
“Well, Reverend, I had an emergency tow,” she said, careful to keep her chest away from the windshield.
“I understand. Running a business is a mighty big responsibility on such a pair of small shoulders. Plus, you have sweet Faith counting on you to be both mother and—forgive me—father to her. But that’s no excuse to turn your back on the Lord, child.”
As he spoke, Michaele could feel his gaze moving over her. She was relieved when the pump suddenly shut off. Then she glanced back and saw why it had stopped so soon.
Here we go again.
Michaele slammed the squeegee on top of the pump and with jerky movements replaced the nozzle in its holder. As she screwed the fuel cap back on, it was all she could do not to grind her teeth into powder.
“I haven’t turned my back on God, Reverend,” she said, finally stepping up to the driver’s window. “It’s just that it’s been years since we had much to say to each other. That’ll be three-fifty.”
He made a great show of patting various pockets. “Dear me…I seem to have misplaced my wallet somewhere.”
Was there no limit to the man’s nerve?
“Try the glove compartment,” she drawled.
“Ah! Of course.” Without an iota of embarrassment, he reached into the compartment and soon presented her with a five-dollar bill. “You know, it grieves me to hear you speak with such cynicism, Michaele.”
“Well, there’s a cure for that, too.” She stretched to her full five foot four to dig out change from the front right pocket of her jeans. “From now on, let your tank get closer to E before stopping by.”
Accepting the money, he wagged a cadaver-white finger at her. “You’re not getting off that easy. I’m a patient shepherd, and I will bring you back to God’s flock sooner or later.”
Michaele glared after him as he pulled away. “Do me and God both a favor,” she muttered, “and hold your breath.”
She didn’t like that he brought out her worst side, but his arrogance irritated her as much as his sneaky sexual leers disgusted her. On the other hand, she allowed, for once maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that Buck was inebriated. Had he been the one serving “the good reverend,” he would have let the charity hog have the gas free, thinking it would make him points Upstairs.
“Fruitcakes and freeloaders. It might as well be Christmas.” She strode into the store and slammed the phone’s handset into the cradle. As expected, the resounding clamor didn’t win her so much as a muscle twitch from her father. With his mouth wide open and the rest of his alcohol-swollen body almost as slack, a thin stream of drool was beginning to run down the side of his jaw.
Michaele kicked the sole of his booted foot with the toe of her athletic shoes.
He jerked upright, the movement knocking his cap to the cement floor. “Wh-what?”
“Where is it?”
“Huh?”
“The bottle.”
He went from dazed to pit-bull mad. “I was sleepin’! In case you ain’t noticed, it’s hotter ’n hell in here, and I’m full wore out.”
“Yeah, guzzling battery acid is exhausting work. Well, I have news for you. It’s hot out there, too—” she nodded toward the garage “—and we’re busy, which is the only reason why I actually give a flying fig if you drink yourself into a coma. Now we had a deal, old man. You promised to carry your weight and not get soused during working hours. So hand it over.”
He stared at her outstretched hand and resumed his comfortable slouch. “Leave me alone, ya mouthy li’l bitch. Nag, nag, nag. I shoulda drowned you back when I had the chance and your ma wasn’t looking.”
The insults no longer stung as they once had. She’d heard so