Luke found it hard to believe Belcher was someone who intimidated anyone physically, rather he was the sort of person who derived his authority from his association with stronger and more powerful people. At least, that was the way he remembered him in high school, always protected by a close circle of friends who moved through the long gray corridors as if they owned them. Others at school either resented Belcher or else tried to ingratiate themselves with him so he and his friends would not bother them.

He really didn't have any contact with Belcher until late one afternoon during his sophomore year. He was walking home from soccer practice when the senior spotted him crossing the baseball diamond and rolled down his window and asked if he wanted a ride home. Belcher was not driving but the kid who was knew him from geography class so he accepted the offer. Belcher spoke with him about the soccer team for a couple of minutes, seeming to be interested in what he had to say, then all of a sudden his tone changed. Abruptly he yanked a loose thread from the sleeve of Luke's badly frayed denim jacket and accused him of looking as ragged as a scarecrow. He asked what the others in the car thought and they
agreed with him. Luke laughed nervously, assuming he was cracking a joke.

"I don't like having bums in my car," the driver thundered, startling Luke.

"I don't either," Belcher said, "so the best thing to do is get rid of this scarecrow as soon as possible."

"You want me to drop him off right here?"

"No," he grunted. "We said we'd take him home so let's take him where he belongs."

The driver turned left at the next corner and, turning up the volume on the radio, started back toward Fairmont. Luke, concerned, told him he was going in the wrong direction, his home was west of the school, but the driver ignored him and continued to talk with Belcher and the others. Soon they were across the river and cruising along the dock, moving past cargo ships as large as warehouses. They drove until they came to a dilapidated fountain where a lot of transients congregated after dark, then screeched to a halt at the corner. At once, Belcher opened the back door and ordered Luke out of the car.

"How come?"

"We said we'd give you a ride home, and this is where bums like you belong so get out before I kick your sorry butt out."

Luke did as he was told, and immediately Belcher and his friends took off, the sting of their laughter carrying sharply across the cool night air. Angrily he picked up a rock and threw it at the car but missed by several feet. He was beside himself he was so furious. Not only because he had nearly a three mile walk ahead of him, but even more because he was naive enough to let them pull such a trick on him. He was so embarrassed about what happened that he never told anyone about it, not even his father. In a sense he was fortunate because nothing happened to him other than an empty beer can being hurled at him from a passing car. But later that year someone else they kidnapped and abandoned in a seedy area of town was not as fortunate and was mugged and stabbed in the chest with a penknife. The assailant was eventually apprehended but nothing ever was done to those who had left the kid in that dangerous area. They got away with it as they did so many other things they did at Fairmont.

Belcher was not the first person Luke had followed around town since he started working as a valet. There were also some others whose cars he recognized from parking at the restaurant that he instinctively trailed whenever he happened to notice them on the street. He supposed he wanted to see what they did to deserve the elegant cars the owned. He seldom was surprised where they led him, usually it was to a home that was every bit as elegant or to some imposing office building downtown. But one lazy Sunday afternoon he spotted a familiar silver Jaguar and followed it through the hills overlooking the city until it came to a small park near the main entrance to the zoo. It was usually the car he remembered, not the driver, though he did vaguely recall the spectacled Armenian man who squirmed out from behind the wheel.

Remaining in his car, Luke watched the driver shamble over to a dunking booth stationed a few feet from the barbecue grill. Above the booth fluttered a small banner that read "Soak the Judge." Moments later, the burly figure seated inside it was replaced by another jurist, the Armenian, and Luke smiled, not a bit surprised. Frequently at work he imagined that he owned the luxury cars he parked, and more often than not he pictured himself as a banker or a lawyer or a surgeon. So it seemed fitting that a judge would own a Jaguar, and though he was tempted to join the file of people waiting to throw tennis balls at the pumpkin-colored target below the judge's narrow bench, he started his engine and slowly eased away from the crowded picnic grounds.

After he tracked a patron like the Armenian jurist once, he never did so again, but in the case of Belcher he continued to follow him every few days. He was not really sure why since he already knew where he resided and how he earned his livelihood. It was almost as if he were still in high school, trying to curry favor with Belcher so he would invite him to join his exclusive circle of friends, but that circle probably didn't exist anymore, and even if it did it didn't mean anything to him now. He guessed he was bored, and that he was glad to see that Belcher was not that much better off than he was despite all the expectations for him and his friends when they graduated. He was surprised how bitter he remained about high school and the people he met there like Belcher, who ignored him except when they wanted to amuse themselves at his expense.

One morning, after collecting rent at a couple of grungy laundromats in the southeast section of town, Belcher abruptly pulled over to the side of the road and sprang out of his car. Half a dozen small businesses were bunched on the corner. Luke, half a block back, also pulled over, trying to figure out which one Belcher would collect from now. He assumed the locksmith shop because its front door was badly in need of a fresh coat of paint and seldom were any of the places Belcher visited in very good condition. Belcher did not go over to any of the shops, however, but slowly circled his car as though he were looking for something he had dropped on the ground. It was then that Luke noticed that his emergency lights were flashing in the glaring sunlight. Apparently he was having some kind of problem with his car and without hesitation he got out and walked over to see if he could be of any assistance.

"To be honest, I really don't know what's wrong with this beater of mine," he admitted after Luke approached him. "It just started coughing and losing power so I pulled over before it shut down completely."

"Can you start it?"

"The engine turns over but only for a second or two."

"Maybe you ran out of gas?"

"Not according to the indicator light."

"I know from experience those lights are not always that reliable," he observed. "If you want, I could drive you to a service station and you can buy some gas and see if that does the trick."

"Come on then and let's get you taken care of."

They climbed into Luke's battered Suburu and proceeded a block and a half down the congested street then turned left and headed north past an abandoned lumber yard. Belcher continued to complain about his unreliable car while Luke tried to find some decent music on the radio.

"You're Jeff Belcher, aren't you?" he asked after a few more blocks.

"Why yes I am. Have we met before?"

"Lord, that was a while ago."

Luke disagreed. "Oh, not really."

"I guess it depends how clear your memory is of those days," he replied. "Mine is pretty hazy I'm afraid. To me, it seems like a generation ago."

"Not me."

"What's your name?"

"Luke."

"Luke Stillwell."

He thought a moment. "Sorry, I can't really place you, but Fairmont was a pretty big school then and I gather it still is. One can't know everyone, right?"

Luke nodded solemnly as he picked up speed and headed toward the river. In another minute or two, he glimpsed a service station in the distance and hurriedly made a right onto a shaded back street, hoping Belcher didn't see it too. He didn't say anything so Luke assumed he didn't.

"You hear that clicking noise?" he asked after they crossed the suspension bridge.

Belcher leaned forward, listening intently. "No, can't say that I do."

"I suppose you better stop and check it out."

At once, he skidded to a halt in front of a Panamamian oil tanker, set the emergency brake, but left the engine running. "Please, would you have a look at it for me?"

"All right," he said grudgingly as he pushed open the door.

"Thanks."

1  2