As he came into the alley, he saw Espinoza leaning against his back bumper and could make out two people in the cab through the tinted window. It was Zielinski on the passenger side. He could see the outline of the straw fedora the stupid Polack wore, one of his several affectations. Rusty figured the other guy for the Hispanic dude, and Zielinski was leaned over close to him, something glinting in his hand. The Hispanic man’s muffled shrieks of pain were audible through the thick glass.
Rusty stopped short, looking at Espinoza for an explanation he didn’t want. Espinoza, who now had a leather glove on his right hand, shrugged. An awkward moment passed between them as they both considered the alley walls, the ground, the sky, anything but whatever was going on in the front seat of Rusty’s truck.
“Why don’t you take a hike?” Espinoza offered, his voice almost kindly. “I hate this shit. You know that. Bad enough I gotta be here.”
“How long’s he gonna be?”
Espinoza shrugged. “I’ll leave the keys on the tire.”
But Rusty didn’t want to walk away. He needed to get the fuck in his truck and scrounge cash and food and water in whatever way he could, and he certainly did not want to do so on foot. “I can give it a minute,” he said, the soul of reason.
Espinoza looked up, squinting into the lowering sun. “You think, what they’re saying? With the power and all?”
Rusty shook his head, skeptical. “C’mon.”
“I don’t know, man. Everybody’s saying.”
“They say a lot of stuff. Gotta get ratings.”
“I don’t know, Rusty, feels like shit’s about to get very real in the world.” He jerked a thumb back over the truck, toward the window. “Z wants everybody paid up if the power’s gonna go.”
From the front of the truck, there was a muffled wet gawping sound, someone choking or crying or both. Espinoza looked back at Rusty, agitated this time.
“Seriously, take a hike. You don’t want to see Z right now.”
“Maybe I should talk to him. If shit gets weird, could be some good opportunities coming up, you know what I mean? I could help him.”
“It ain’t your help he wants, Rusty. I’m not coming for you, fam. We go back. But you know what you gotta do. Can you please just take care of it?”
“It is at the top of my list, I promise you.”
“Yeah, well, take care of it faster. Keep him off your back. Feel me?”
The passenger door of the pickup truck opened abruptly, and a man in a pressed white dress shirt and straw hat stepped out. The word that came to mind most readily to describe Zielinski was “dense.” Not dumb, far from it, but thick, stout, compactly built. He gave the impression you could punch him in the gut and do more damage to your hand than to him. He resembled no one so much as Nikita Khrushchev. Maybe he’d seen old news clips, and that was why he favored the crisp white dress shirts and hat. He didn’t notice Rusty at first, as he was wiping his hands on some kind of kerchief, just out of Rusty’s line of sight, behind the cab of the truck.
Espinoza moved right away, meeting his boss before he came around the corner of the truck and taking a small, red-smeared pliers from him. He muttered as he approached, but Zielinski had already noticed Rusty. His face darkened into a frown.
“Hey, Z, what’s up?”
“I left something in there for you,” Zielinski said.
No idea what that meant, Rusty managed only an “Oh, OK. Thanks, man.”
Zielinski muttered again to Espinoza, who went around the front of the truck, opened the driver’s door, and pulled the Hispanic guy out. There was gentleness in the big man’s gesture, the way an undertaker is cautious with a body that no longer needs caution.
Rusty looked at the guy as Espinoza helped him past. He was moaning in pain, his left cheek swollen, a long, ropy string of bloody tissue running out in a perfect line down his neck and across the front of his shirt. The Hispanic guy looked up at Rusty, his left eye nearly swollen shut and his right asking for help. But he kept his mouth shut.
Rusty watched as Espinoza led the guy out of the alley. A jingling sound drew his attention back to Zielinski, who was holding his car keys out to him.
“See you soon, Rusty.”
Rusty took the keys, grateful to be nearly out of there. “You got it. Be safe, Z. Crazy times.”
Rusty turned, hurried around to the driver’s side, and got in the truck, slamming the door behind him. He looked up into the rearview mirror, but Zielinski was gone, around the corner of the alley already. Rusty turned, shoved the key in the ignition, and stopped, his eyes focusing on an object perched on the dashboard, directly in his line of sight.