The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(62)
“I didn’t start that fight, remember.”
“I know it, and they know it, too. Anyway, they not so bad off. They been making noises about getting out for a while, but now I think they serious. I made them too damn much money. Nino got his eye on some land up north, spend the rest of his days drinking beer and fishing. Ray going back to Tulsa, he got a girl down there.”
“But not you,” said Peter.
Lewis moved his shoulders. “My number a little bigger than theirs.”
“I can’t see you retired,” said Peter. “What would you do? Buy some apartment buildings and collect the rent every month? Drink yourself to death?”
Lewis looked off into the trees. “Build a house. On the water. In the islands.”
“That’s a much bigger number.”
“Well,” said Lewis. The tilted smile came back. “I got a new business partner. Just might win the jackpot.”
The Man in the Black Canvas Chore Coat
“You don’t want me in the basement?” said the tank truck driver, talking loud over the gravelly rattle of the big diesel. He had a bushy black beard that hung down over his oil-stained coveralls, and a green-and-gold-striped winter hat with the Packers G front and center.
“The tank is fine,” said Midden. He stood on the parking strip in front of the house, illuminated by a single streetlight and the work lights of the tanker.
“It’s a safety check,” said the driver, tapping his clipboard. “I gotta do it. To make sure your oil tank is sound. The company requires it once a year for all tanks, and for new customers I really gotta. It’s free.”
Nothing is easy, thought Midden. “It’s a new tank,” he said. “We just had it installed.” He reached for his wallet and began counting out bills. “It’s two hundred gallons. I don’t need a receipt. What’s that, about a thousand bucks?”
The driver shook his head. “Sorry, man. Company rules. We had a tank with a rusted bottom three years ago; the driver pumped eight hundred gallons into the basement. That house had to be torn down. Your money isn’t worth my job.” He turned to walk back to his tanker.
Midden was very tired. “Please,” he said. “Hang on a minute. What will it take to make this work?”
The man with the clipboard had one foot on the running board. “It takes me inspecting that fuel tank in your basement. I seen too many bad installs and rusted bottoms and cracked fuel lines to take any man’s word for it.” He looked through the pale glow of the streetlights at the dark house with the siding falling off, the yard littered with fallen roof shingles. “And I’m starting to wonder what you’re doing that you don’t want me down there.”
Midden sighed. This was not the way he wanted this to go. He liked the guy. He liked the way the guy knew his job, the way he refused the money. Nobody refused the money. Plus Midden had never run the controls on one of those big tanker trucks. But he could figure it out.
“Okay,” said Midden. “Tell you what. The basement’s a mess. We’re renovating, and there are some structural problems. We just want some heat so we can stay warm while we work. But why don’t you get your hose run, and I’ll make a path to the tank. Before you start pumping, I’ll walk you down for a look.”
The man with the clipboard nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “I appreciate it. It’ll only take a minute.” He unclipped the fill nozzle and walked slowly backward toward the house as the hose began to unspool from its reel.
Midden went through the splintered side door and down the rotting basement stairs into the yellow light of a kerosene lantern. It hadn’t seemed worth the effort getting the power turned on. He had just found the vacant house the day before. There were a great many to choose from.
There was no new oil tank.
Instead there were ten white plastic drums that had once held fifty gallons of pickles in their brine. Each drum would hold twenty gallons of fuel oil and get filled the rest of the way with fertilizer.
It would be easiest to steal a tanker from the company yard, but stealing an oil truck would definitely get noticed. Even the UPS trucks had GPS trackers on them now. And nobody sold bulk fuel oil anymore, not to a walk-in customer. You couldn’t just show up with ten pickle barrels.
Boomer had wanted racing fuel originally, which was what McVeigh had used, but that was impossible now, too. And gas stations all had cameras. He’d considered kerosene or paint thinner, bought a gallon at a time, but that would have taken forever. Midden had used up his patience buying ten thousand pounds of fertilizer in fifty-pound bags. And time was getting short. Veterans Day was only two days away.
He saw the legs of the driver through the high foundation windows. It was hard work to pull that hose all the way to the back of the house. He wasn’t quite there yet.
In truth, thought Midden, this way would make things easier. He could put the empty drums in the van again and fill them right there, straight from the tanker. No heavy lifting.
But standing in the basement in the light of a lantern, thinking through each step as he always did, it weighed on him. It was almost too much to carry now.
It was one thing to kill a man in combat, to protect yourself. Or to kill a man who you knew would be a threat because of incompetence, like the man who had driven the van. He had proven himself unreliable. A danger.