The gas jockey's name was Boyd Slidell, pronounced like the town in Louisiana, as he told his probation officer the first time they met. Early in life Boyd Slidell had mastered the art of stealing and stripping automobiles. His first auto theft occurred shortly after his thirteenth birthday, a T-Bird he still remembered fondly because he stole the car and learned to drive on the same night. He had separated dozens of cars and pickups from their lawful owners over the years. He liked to think there wasn't a vehicle made that he couldn't get into with a hacksaw blade or a length of clothes hanger wire in sixty seconds. At twenty-two, Slidell had mastered his craft.
He worked for the Sundstrom brothers, Cleveland's leading auto choppers. The Sundstroms were in the business of dismantling stolen cars and selling the pieces to parts shops. A carefully torn down automobile was worth four times more than the intact car.
Boyd Slidell rose from his chair to peer out the door at the Ford and its driver. With any luck the customer would pump his own gas. His hand was still in his pocket. He returned to the chair.
Hal's Independent Service had lasted thirty years, but the business had gone the way of so many service stations, and four weeks ago the Sundstrom brothers had rented the building from a management company representing the bankruptcy court. The Sundstroms figured they had two months in any one location before the police found them, so they changed addresses more often than Boyd Slidell changed his shorts, as Bobby Sundstrom liked to say. Sundstrom also liked to brag that a hundred thousand dollars' worth of tools were in the service bays: power drills and saws, air hammers and wrenches, compressors, blowtorches and acetylene welders, electric metal saws, portable lighting units, hydraulic hoists and electric winches, and dozens of ripping and prying tools. The plywood over the bay door's windows was not due to broken glass but so nosy passersby could not peer in. An automobile ceased to exist within thirty minutes of arriving at one of Hal's service bays. Parked behind the garage were two three-quarter-ton Dodge trucks the Sundstroms used to deliver the parts. The brothers kept the gas bay operating as a cover for the chop shop. This night Boyd Slidell was expecting the delivery of a silver 1991 Pontiac Firebird just as soon as Danny Anderson found one. Slidell was going to call the brothers when the Firebird arrived, and the four of them would dismantle the car in a frenzy of hacking, tearing, yanking, cutting, and sawing. Boyd Slidell loved his work.
The asshole in the station wagon at the service island wasn't pumping his own gas, just staring out his car window waiting for help. A big fellow wearing a cap and a frown. Something was familiar about the customer. The station wagon had New Jersey plates. Shaking his head with resignation, Slidell flipped the magazine onto the desk and walked out toward the station wagon.
"Put gas in the car. And I need a fan belt." The words were said with obvious effort and a gnarled accent.
Any more Polacks in Cleveland, the place will be like Chicago. And why did the Sundstroms insist on keeping up the façade of the all-night service station? Pumping gas was beneath Slidell's dignity, a talented man like him. He stared at the foreigner a moment, considering telling him to take his piece of dirt station wagon somewhere else. Didn't see many of these old fake woody wagons anymore. Goddamnit. Bobby Sundstrom had told him to pump gas if anybody came in, and do it politely.
"With your big gas guzzler, you'd better turn the engine off while I pump gas," Slidell said. "Otherwise you'll never leave the station."
No laugh from the foreigner. Christ, how do they get into this country? The Polack looked like he'd taken a few cuffs to the head. A rough dude, looked like. Had the foreigner been into the station before? He was sort of recognizable.
"I'll go see if I have a belt that fits," Slidell said. "We don't take no credit cards."
Not that this Polack was likely to have any. Slidell shuffled back to the station's office, lighting another cigarette. He put the matches back into his pocket and exhaled. He looked down the street, hoping Danny would hurry back with the Firebird so they could get to work.
He hesitated at the desk. Something about the Polack nagged at him. His eyes fell on the state patrol manila envelope. And it came to him. A mean grin spread across the car thief's face. He pulled out the contents of the envelope. He was right. He laughed shrilly with building excitement. Fifty thousand dollars for information leading to Nikolai Trusov's arrest and conviction for murder. Christ, Slidell could do anything he wanted to with a murderer. And Slidell could be a hero. Maybe he wouldn't have to visit his goddamn probation officer twice a week anymore. Boyd Slidell, hero. He cackled again.
He returned to the service island carrying the envelope and another piece of paper in his hand, his walk a cocky pump and roll. He lifted the gas nozzle from the boot and flipped the reset lever. The Polack was just sitting there behind the steering wheel. Slidell brought out his matches.
"Hey, Polack, recognize yourself?" Slidell held up a five-by-seven black-and-white photograph of Nikolai Trusov, delivered to every airport, bus station, car rental agency, and service station in every midwestern state. Pete Coates had organized the distribution with the help of the FBI offices, police departments, and state patrols.
"You came to the wrong station, pal." Slidell laughed.
He quickly held up the gas nozzle, not to the gas tank cover but to the station wagon's window, six inches from the foreigner's nose. He let the photo drop, and with the swift motion of one who had been smoking since he was nine, he struck a match. He squeezed the nozzle trigger and brought up the flaming match. He laughed crazily.
Gasoline poured into the Ford's cab, splashing onto the foreigner. Slidell ignited the stream. The gas roared as it caught fire, spewing into the station wagon's interior and filling it with orange light and ferocious heat. A wall of flame blocked Slidell's view of the foreigner. He took two steps back, away from the heat, but he held the nozzle out, still filling the cab with a surging, broiling flood of fire.
Slidell giggled in a piercing falsetto. The conflagration churned inside the cab. Roiling flames surged out the open window, almost reaching the roof of the service island. The leaping fire hid everything inside the cab.
Fifty thousand dollars. Slidell dropped the nozzle and fairly danced across the cement to the office. That's more than he'd make in two years working for the Sundstroms.
The station wagon moaned and crackled. The passenger side door was open and flame spilled onto the cement, spreading quickly to the front tires. Black smoke seethed from the burning rubber. The fuel tank exploded with a dull retort, adding its fuel to the firestorm. The old station wagon sank on its blazing tires. Fire consumed the wagon, inside and out, forming a cone of red and orange fire above the blackening vehicle.
"Fifty cool ones," Slidell exulted. He stepped inside the office to grab the phone. "Goddamnit, who do I call?"
The arm was around his neck before the telephone reached his mouth. A hard and massive form stepped up from behind, lifting Slidell off the ground by his neck and choking off a scream of fear and pain and rage. Another arm wound around his chest, holding him in a hug so powerful that Slidell heard two of his ribs break. He lashed back with his feet, finding his tormentor's legs, but the man behind him ignored the kicks as he carried Slidell through the side door into the shop. Slidell tried to yell, but his windpipe was collapsing. With his hands he tore at the arm around his throat, but it only gripped him tighter. The office smelled of burned flesh.