The Best American Mystery Stories 2002

“Accident,” said Pryor.

“My ass,” said Beemer. And then, “That one.”

He was looking at a gray Nissan a couple of years old parked under a big tree with branches sticking out over the street. No traffic. Dead-end street.

“Wipe it down,” Beemer ordered, parking the car and getting out.

Pryor started wiping the car for prints. First inside. Then outside. By the time he was done, Beemer had the Nissan humming. Pryor got in the passenger seat, his bag on his lap, going on a vacation. All he needed was a beach and a towel.

They hit the hot dog place fifteen minutes later. They followed the smell and went in. There was a line. Soft poppyseed buns. Kosher dogs. Big slices of new pickle. Salty brown fries. They were in line. Two women in front of them were talking. A mother and daughter. Both wearing shorts and showing stomach. Pryor looked back at the door. He could see the Nissan. The bag was in the trunk with George Bernard Shaw standing guard.

The woman and the girl were talking about Paris. Plaster of? Texas? Europe? Somebody they knew? Nice voices. Beemer tried to remember when he had last been with a woman. Not that long ago. Two months? Amarillo? Las Vegas? Moline, Illinois?

It was their turn. The kid in the white apron behind the counter wiped his hands and said, “What can I do for you?”

You can bring back the dead, thought Beemer. You can make us invisible. You can teleport us to my aunt Elaine’s in Corpus Christi.

“You can give us each a hot dog with the works,” Beemer said.

“Two for me,” said Pryor. “And fries.”

“Two for both of us. Lots of mustard. Grilled onions. Tomatoes. Cokes. Diet for me. Regular for him.”

The mother and daughter were sitting on stools still talking about Paris and eating.

“You got a phone?” Beemer asked, paying for their order.

“Back there,” said the kid, taking the money.

“I’m going back there to call Walter. Find us a seat where we can watch the car.”

Pryor nodded and moved to the pickup line. Beemer went back there to make the call. The phone was next to the toilet. He used the toilet first and looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look good. Decidedly.

He filled the sink with water, cold water, and plunged his face in. Maybe the sink was dirty? Least of his worries. He pulled his head out and looked at himself. Dripping-wet reflection. The world hadn’t changed. He dried his face and hands and went to the phone. He had a calling card, AT&T. He called Walter. The conversation went like this.

“Walter? I’ve got goods.”

“Jewelry store?”

“It matter?”

“Matters. Cops moved fast. Man’s in the hospital maybe dying. Church deacon or something. A saint. All over television with descriptions of two dummies I thought I might recognize.”

“Goods are goods,” said Beemer.

“These goods could make a man an accessory maybe to murder. Keep your goods. Take them who knows where. Get out of town before it’s too late, my dear. You know what I’m saying?”

“Walter, be reasonable.”

“My middle name is ‘reasonable.’ It should be ‘careful’ but it’s ‘reasonable.’ I’m hanging up. I don’t know who you are. I think you got the wrong number.”

He hung up. Beemer looked at the phone and thought. St. Louis. There was a guy, Tanner, in St. Louis. No, East St. Louis. A black guy who’d treat them fair for their goods. They’d check out of the motel and head for St. Louis. Not enough money, without selling the goods or going to the bank, to get a new car. They’d have to drive the Nissan, slow and easy. All night. Get to Tanner first thing in the morning when the sun was coming up through the Arch.

Beemer went down the narrow corridor. Cardboard boxes made it narrower. When he got to the counter, the mother and daughter were still eating and talking and drinking. Lots of people were. Standing at the counters or sitting on high stools with red seats that swirled. Smelled fantastic. Things would be all right. Pryor had a place by the window where he could watch the car. He had finished one hot dog and was working on another. Beemer inched in next to him.

“We’re going to St. Louis,” he said behind a wall of other conversations.

“Okay,” said Pryor, mustard on his nose. No questions. Just “Okay.”

Then it happened. It always happens. Shit always happens. A cop car, black and white, pulled into the lot outside the hot dog place. It was a narrow lot. The cops were moving slowly. Were they looking for a space and a quick burger or hot dog? Were they looking for a stolen Nissan?

The cops stopped next to the Nissan.

“No,” moaned Pryor.

Beemer grabbed the little guy’s arm. The cops turned toward the hot dog shop window. Beemer looked at the wall, ate his dog, and ate slowly, his heart going mad. Maybe he’d die now of a heart attack. Why not? His father had died on a Washington, D.C., subway just like that.