Centralia by Mike Dellosso Read Free Book Online

damage, but it sometimes came with the territory.
    In his brand-new Lincoln MKZ, he adjusted his mirrors and seat, tuned the radio to the oldies station, and backed out of the parking space. He could have afforded something a little more image-enhancing, like a Mercedes or BMW, but Lawrence wasn’t the pretentious type. He liked to think of himself as simple, useful, functional. Besides, the Lincoln gave a nice ride, offered plenty of room for his largish frame, and was chock-full of bells and whistles he would never have use for.
    The destination was a good thirty miles away, so he had to make time. But first he needed gas.
    Two blocks over, Lawrence steered the Lincoln into the parking lot of an A-Plus Mini Mart, pulled up to a gas pump, and killed the engine. On the other side of the pump island, some punk kid filled his customized Honda Civic, equipped with ground effects, window guards, aftermarket headlamps, and alloy wheels. The kid’s pants were down around his thighs, his smiley face boxers in full view. He wore a bulky black hooded sweatshirt and a red Miami Heat cap pulled low, hiding his eyes. Loud rap music thumped fromthe car’s speakers and vibrated Lawrence’s chest. The kid nodded to the beat.
    Before exiting the car, Lawrence glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. The smooth, silvery scar that stretched from his right temple to the corner of his mouth had turned an odd shade of blue. It did that sometimes. From pink to blue to bright red. The injury had partially paralyzed the right side of Lawrence’s face, affecting the way he spoke. For that reason, Lawrence spoke only when he had to.
    While pumping his own gas, Lawrence avoided the kid, who was posturing like he had some turf to protect here at the mini-mart. He was the type who put on like he was king of the world, a tough guy, but really he was just as scared as the rest of them. Just as defenseless and vulnerable as a cornered rat staring down a shotgun.
    When he finished, the kid returned the nozzle to the pump and glared at Lawrence.
    This time Lawrence didn’t avert his eyes.
    The kid squared up and stuck out his chest. “What you lookin’ at, man? You got a problem?”
    Lawrence said nothing but smiled at the kid. He could have jumped across the island and snapped the punk’s neck like a twig. This kid had it coming, for sure, but Lawrence made a point of only getting his hands dirty on the job. Besides, there were cameras monitoring the area. He needed to remain just another joe at the pump, minding his own business.
    The kid stared at him for another long second, eyeing up the freak with the scar. He thought he had the upper hand, that he was intimidating Lawrence, but if he only knew what Lawrence was capable of, what pain he could inflict upon the kid while keeping him alive and aware, he would get in his beater and leave.
    But he didn’t. He no doubt saw Lawrence’s unwillingness to look away as a challenge.
    The punk stepped up onto the concrete island and thumped his chest with an open hand. “What’s yo problem, old man? Huh? You got that crazy scarface and you think yo sumpthin’? You want to go?”
    Lawrence finished pumping and held the nozzle at his waist in one hand, aimed at the kid. With his other hand he discreetly reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a lighter. He eyed the punk carefully, no longer smiling. “Beat it, kid. You don’t want this.”
    The kid stepped back off the island and smirked. “You crazy, man, you know that? That freaky scarface don’t intimidate me. Yo, this ain’t over. You hear? It ain’t over.”
    But it was over. Lawrence got into his car and drove away. If the kid bothered to follow him, he’d be happy to pull off along some scarcely traveled stretch of road and give the piece of filth what he deserved. But that wouldn’t happen. Punks like that were all bark and growl but had no guts when it came to backing it up.
    Back on the road, Lawrence donned his shades and