Five Minutes Alone by Paul Cleave Read Free Book Online Page A

the best?”
    “Does Smith have a locker here?” I ask.
    “Yeah. It’s this way.”
    He leads us through a door and into a corridor with more of the company colors. On the walls are large photographs of the service station from over the years, starting with black-and-white images from fifty years ago, old cars and men in old-fashioned overalls, everybody smoking around the service bay, a guy sitting on a woodencrate drinking soda while squinting at the sun, a small boy playing beneath a jacked-up car. People weren’t as much into health and safety back then, but the weather sure as hell was better. The air-traffic control building in the center of the forecourt only appears in the more recent pictures. I remember coming here with my dad, occasionally sipping a cola while somebody would wash the windshield and pump the gas, which was what, a quarter of the price back then?
    “Dwight Smith worked here for two weeks,” I tell him. “You must have gotten some impression of the man. What can you tell us about him?”
    Andrew Andrews, the man who hires these men out of the goodness of his heart—and no doubt some tax breaks that come along with it—shrugs. “I don’t know. He came in to work on time. He pumped gas. He kept himself to himself. Didn’t make any waves. Didn’t steal anything that I know of. What is it you’re trying to get at? If you just tell me I might be able to help you a little more.”
    “He make any friends?” Kent asks.
    Another shrug. “I don’t think so. He seemed to fit in okay. He chatted to people if they chatted to him, but he hasn’t been here long enough to build any friendships. Like I said, he kept himself to himself. So you going to tell me what he did?”
    “He’s dead,” Kent says.
    Andrew slowly nods. “So guess there’s no need to fire him,” he says, and he’s still using the cheery voice, and I can’t tell if he’s being serious or if it’s a bad joke.
    We reach the lockers. There are a dozen of them, all with a range of padlocks, including Dwight Smith’s, who has locker number ten. Smith’s padlock is smaller than most of the others, as if he has less to hide.
    “You were going to fire him for not showing up?” I ask.
    “Listen,” he says, turning his back to the lockers so he can face us. “We try to help these guys out, okay? But if they’re not going to show up, what would you have me do? There are a hundred other guys coming out of jail who’d love to have his job.”
    “Do you know what he did?” Kent asks.
    “What? You mean that got him arrested?”
    She nods.
    He shakes his head. “No. I mean, they send us people who don’t have thieving on their rap sheet, but other than that we can’t know. They don’t tell us, and if they did, then we couldn’t work with them. You know what I’m saying? If we all learned our new workmate was into hurting kids . . . Well, people don’t get second chances in life if they’re sharing their baggage with you.”
    “You think being in jail for rape or murder is baggage?” Kent asks.
    Andrews shakes his head. “You know what I mean,” he says, “and that’s not it. It’s just the way it has to be. What’s the alternative? Let these guys live on the street? Then what? At least if they’re working, they’re not out there doing other stuff. So what happened? Somebody kill him? Or he kill himself?”
    “Why? Do you think he’d kill himself?” Kent asks.
    “I’m not thinking anything,” Andrews says. “Just being curious. So you going to tell me?”
    “We’re not at liberty to say,” I tell him. “You got a key for this?” I ask, pointing at the padlock.
    “Yeah. All employees have to leave spares with us. Wait here a minute.”
    He leaves us alone. The lockers are part of a room that is attached to a couple of showers and bathrooms, none of which are currently in use. There’s a bench running the length of the room in front of the lockers. It reminds me of the gym back when I was at