“That’s all right,” the man said.
But he was not all right. His hands were squeezed tightly on the grips of his crutches, his face gray and coarse-looking, his breath audible. When he tried to shift his weight, Molly saw the blood drain from around his mouth. The teenage stock boy who had been sent on the price check could not find the rack where the cigars were.
“Sir, maybe I could help,” Molly said.
“I’m fine here,” the man said.
“I was a nurse in—”
“I’m fine,” he said, not looking at her, his expression empty.
She felt her face tighten with embarrassment. She placed her soda can in a trash barrel and went outside. Albert was loading his new saddle in the camper shell that was inserted in the bed of his paint-skinned pickup. He shut the door on the camper and peeled the wrapper on a Hershey bar. “You drive, will you?” he said.
The morning sun created a glare on the window as she backed out of their parking spot. Simultaneously, the white limo was backing up from the gas pump to make way for a motor home. Molly’s trailer hitch gashed the taillight out of the limo’s fender molding, sprinkling glass and chrome on the concrete.
Lyle Hobbs got out from behind the wheel of the limo to inspect the damage. He chewed his lip, his fists propped on his hips, his dry hair blowing in the wind. He let out his breath and took off his aviator glasses and looked at Molly. “I guess if I was sitting on top of an elephant, you might have seen me,” he said.
“That’s very clever. But people don’t usually back up from gas pumps. That’s why this store has an entrance and an exit. You drive into the entrance. You put the gas in your car and drive out of the exit. That’s usually understood by most literate people. Maybe the problem is with your dirty windows. Can you see adequately out of them?”
“You’re Ms. Robicheaux, right?” he said. “Don’t even answer. Yes, indeed, here we are once again.”
“This truck is mine. Address your remarks to me,” Albert said, standing on the pavement.
But Lyle Hobbs continued to stare into Molly’s face and did not acknowledge Albert. “Can you tell me why we keep having trouble with you people?” he asked. “Is this ’cause I broke Mr. Purcel’s fishing rod?”
“I’m sure ‘you people’ refers to a specific group of some kind, but I’m afraid the term is lost on me,” Molly said. “Can you explain what ‘you people’ means? I’ve always wanted to learn that.”
The charcoal-tinted windows of the limo were half down. A gold-haired woman in back pressed the window motor and leaned forward, the sunlight striking her tan skin and blue contact lenses. “We’re late, Lyle. Check her insurance card and make sure it’s current,” she said. “The attorney will handle the rest of it.”
“Your attorney won’t handle anything. Your vehicle backed into me, madam,” Molly said.
But Molly had difficulty sustaining the firmness in her own words.
The man sitting on the far side of the gold-haired woman was grinning at her, if indeed his expression could be called a grin. The skin on his face and head and neck looked like a mixture of pink and white and red rubber someone had fitted on a mannequin, except it was puckered, the nose little more than a bump with two holes in it, the surgically rebuilt mouth a lopsided keyhole that exposed his teeth. He toasted Molly with his champagne glass and winked at her.
She felt a wave of both pity and shame rush through her. Behind her, she heard the metallic clatter of the man who walked with the aid of forearm crutches.
“I saw it all from inside,” the man with crutches said. “It’s our fault. We’ll repair our own vehicle and take care of theirs.”
“This man here is Albert Hollister, Mr. Wellstone,” Lyle Hobbs said.
The man on crutches paused. “You’re him, are you?” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Albert said.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Wellstone said. “What’s the damage to your truck?”
“The bumper is scratched. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Then we’re done here. You agreeable with that?” Wellstone said.
“Your driver owes Mrs. Robicheaux an apology.”
“He’s sorry,” Wellstone said. He got in the front seat of the limousine, propping his crutches next to him on the rolled leather seat. Then he flopped open his newspaper with one hand and slammed the door with the other.
“Why is it I have the feeling someone just spit on the tops of my shoes?” Molly said.
Albert sniffed at an odor he hadn’t detected earlier. He bent down and looked under the bumper of his truck.