In which York defends a lady and gains some Agent Honor.

CHAPTER 22: THE MAN WHO TALKED TO BEN FRANKLIN

TIME AND LOCATION: 10:03, Heaven and Hell Gas Station
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies, sunshine
FORTUNE: "Today, you should make an attempt to grab the bull by the horns."

"I don't got nuthin' to say to the cops."

I flash my most winningest smile, at the same time looking around at the ancient-looking gas pumps, the windows of the nearby building, darkened with grit, and the faded wooden sign announcing our presence at the Heaven and Hell Gas Station. Rather a grandiose name for such a humble establishment, though one we can both appreciate for its musical allusions. Which song do you think it's referring to, Zach? The heavy metal tune by Black Sabbath, or the song by one of your favorite bands, The Buzzcocks? Too bad we'll probably never find out from the owner; as he was so quick to inform us, he doesn't seem overly fond of the police.

"Oh, you mean my current set of wheels? That's just for show, like playing Let's Pretend. If I'm the Cop, maybe you could play the part of the Robber?"

"Shaddap!" The burly man standing outside the cruiser's rolled-up window hawks an impressive gob of saliva onto the left-hand side of the windshield, where it takes its sweet time in leaving a nice gooey trail as it slides down the glass. Good thing we didn't bring our Mustang here, Zach, or you'd have me out there knocking his teeth in before it ever left his mouth. Not very agent-like behavior, I must say, and besides, we'll catch more flies with honey. By flies, I mean a full tank of gasoline. I turn on the wipers.

"Could you at least give me your name?"

"...Jack. They call me Ragin' Bull Jack."

"That's a manly nickname. Now, Jack, you're the owner a gas station, not an economist. But surely even you have some understanding of the process of supply and demand?"

Jack's piggy little eyes narrow even further, making the extra flesh around his jowls stand out even more prominently. His beefy arms flex almost involuntarily from under his sleeveless leather jacket, but the muscles are offset by the centerpiece of his torso, a large beer belly that spills out from under his black t-shirt and over a leather belt that seems like it will no longer be adequate to contain it in about two or three years.

"Whaddya mean, supply and demand?"

"Well, Jack, you supply a service that in turn offers a certain product to potential consumers such as myself. In this case gasoline. There is a limited quantity of it, but lots of people want and need it, so there is high demand. In order to equalize the pressure of this system, an intermediary form of currency must be involved in order to facilitate a successful transaction. In this case, and most cases in fact, that middle party is money. ...Ah, I see I've finally struck a word that you are familiar with! Perhaps you can even spell it?"

Jack's eyes gleam hungrily. "Cash only, craphead. I don't talk to fuzz. Just Ben Franklin."

I dig out a few hundreds from my wallet. My hand holding the bills is barely out of the car before Jack reaches inside and snatches them up with sweaty fingers. He takes a moment to flip through them, counting under his breath. Then he frowns and looks at me.

"That's a lot of friggin' gasoline."

"Mind if I- that is, Ben Franklin- asks a few questions before you top off the tank?"

Jack spits again (this time on the ground, fortunately) and leans on the police cruiser with his back to me. His back... I wonder what secrets he could be hiding under that beat-up leather jacket... I don't have it on me for comparison, but his physique from this angle could very well match up to our tattooed unsub in that photograph. He's no stranger to the needle, either; his arms are covered in black ink.

"Well, well," he giggles to himself like a madman. "What does 'ol Ben have to say to Uncle Jack this time?"

"Ben would like to know if you have any information about the legend of the Raincoat Killer. You know, only comes out in the rain, likes the color red, that sort of thing."

"It's all bullshit. I never see nobody out when it rains, 'cept truckers from outta town, and they don't wear raincoats."

"Okay, then how about something a little more direct. What do you know about Anna Graham?"

"That blonde chick? She was hot."

"...Is that all you have to say about her?"

Jack's laugh is asinine, grating against my eardrums. "What, ya want me to talk about the size of her rack? I could do that, man, all day long. She weren't much different from all the wimmen 'round these parts though; smokin' hot, but stone cold bitches, through and through. 'Specially that one piece a tail, can't even remember her name, that deputy chick. Now there's a cop I wouldn't mind gettin' drilled by, if I got to drill her first-"

Jack grunts in surprise as I put the cruiser into reverse and haul backwards a few feet, rolling him against the car and snapping the side view mirror off his elbow in the process. The hundred dollar bills he'd been holding scatter across the lot, are blown around like leaves in the sudden breeze that seems to have kicked up for this very purpose.

"I'm sorry, my foot must've slipped."

"Why you little-"

He stops when he clambers to his feet and looks through the car window, where he comes face to face with my badge. I hold it steady as if were a gun.

"I don't think I properly introduced myself. I'm FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan. You know, Jack..." I tuck the badge away and look up at the roof of the car, sighing deeply. "First impressions are terribly important. I could detain you for a few days, and maybe you'll become more pleasant to meet."

Jack glowers, rubbing his arm. My grin feels stuck to my face as I look at him and add brightly, "Fill 'er up?"

Fifteen minutes later, pulling into the hospital parking lot with a tank brimming with premium, and I still can't figure out whether it was your hand on the gear shift and my foot on the gas pedal, or the other way around. Not very agent-like behavior? Maybe so. But you gotta admit, Zach... That's what I call teamwork.

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