Jacket Man

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I was putting gas into the van when the dark blue Chrysler 300 whipped into the station lot. The driver didn’t pull up to the pumps, but stopped alongside me and powered down the window.

“I wonder if you can help me,” he said. He had an Italian accent. Tanned, pockmarked face, jet-black moustache, black hair. Nice suit. The tie was silk.

“Sure,” I said, glancing at the pump, not wanting to go over eighty bucks. I’d already given four twenties to the attendant in the booth. I avoided credit cards, and they wouldn’t free up the pump without a card unless you went in and paid first. Which reminded me. Mary’d given me the phone and gas bills that morning so I could drop by the bank and pay them on the way home. They were still in my jacket pocket. We weren’t into online banking. We were like our parents, paying our bills at the teller’s window, although for different reasons.

“I am from Milano,” he said. “My English is not so good.”

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