William Rabkin - Psych - A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read

And with one last wave, Coules stepped off the empty curb and headed across the street to the police station. Lassiter stood in the street, uncomfortably trying to decide if he had anything to say. Finally he decided against speech and followed Coules. Gus sank down to the curb.

“You’re not going to let him get you down?” Shawn said.

“I’m not letting him do anything,” Gus said. “He did it all without my permission.”

“He’s hazing us,” Shawn said. “It’s a sign of respect. Welcome to the brotherhood of crime solvers.”

“I hope one of the other brothers has a car, because we don’t have a way to get home.”

“What kind of attitude is that?” Shawn said. “It’s a beautiful day. We’re young, healthy, and strong. And Santa Barbara has been repeatedly voted best pedestrian city in the USA.”

Gus stared up at him. “Are you saying we should walk to the impound lot?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.”

“There’s no point in us both going. So I’ll wait in the coffee place on Anacapa. You know, the one with the waitress you think likes you but who really has a thing for me.”

“My car was towed because of you. You’re going with me to get it back.”

“Okay, okay. But we’re not going to walk. I’ll call my father and ask for a ride.”

Gus sighed, then got wearily to his feet and started walking down the street.

Shawn called after him, “Where are you going?”

“To get your phone. It’s in my glove compartment.”

Those were the last words Gus said to Shawn for eight long miles. Eight long vertical miles up a narrow, twisting road. Because the impound lot lay at the top of a high hill looking out over all of Santa Barbara and the bay.

On a cooler day, Gus might have wondered who would have been crazy enough to build a wrecking yard on a lot that could be developed into multimillion-dollar-view homes. But the heat of the sun made it clear why that had never happened. The canyon directly below the yard was Santa Barbara’s most active landfill, and the stench of rotting garbage made breathing almost impossible.

Now they were finally at the impound yard, and Shawn was still trying to get Gus to respond.

“So you really think this is my fault?” Shawn said. “You’re going to blame me?”

Gus grabbed the fence and pressed his face against the links. Autos stretched out across acres. In the middle of the lot, like the god the cars all worshipped, a yellow crane towered over the car crusher.

Gus searched the lot for a sign of blue.

“No,” Gus said. “I’m going to blame myself. You’ve been taking advantage of me since we were kids. It’s my fault for letting you.”

“Well, as long as you’re not blaming me,” Shawn said.

In the far distance, Gus saw a glint of blue metal. The roof of his Echo seemed to be calling to him for help.

“There it is,” Gus said. “It looks so lonely.”

“It’s got all those other cars to play with,” Shawn said. “It’s probably having a great time-won’t ever want to come home.”

Gus thrust his finger at Shawn’s face. “We’re getting the Echo now.” Without waiting to see if Shawn was following, he turned and marched down the fence toward the impound lot’s entrance.

A small tin building stood at the far end of the fence. A sign on the door designated it as the office, which was helpful since otherwise it might be mistaken for the punishment box at an Alabama prison camp. Gus pushed open the door and was met by a searing blast of hot air.

“Close that damn door,” a voice growled from inside. “You’re letting the air-conditioning out.”

Gus slipped into the shack, Shawn following him before the door could slam shut. As soon as the door closed, the temperature inside seemed to double.

“Now I know what one of those chickens feels like inside the rotisserie,” Shawn said. “I think I’ll wait outside.”

Gus didn’t answer, but the laser beams shooting out of his eyes welded the door shut. Or at least, that was the effect his glare had on Shawn.

“Or I’ll stay here and enjoy the steam,” Shawn said, looking around for a place to sit. Two drooping Formica chairs leaned against one corrugated wall, their molded plastic forms melting out of shape; a low table between them held a copy of Popular Mechanics jauntily promising that mankind would finally walk on the moon within no more than ten years. Across from this luxurious waiting area, its proprietor leaned on a sagging counter covered with dust-crusted plastic signs. At least Gus assumed this was the proprietor-it could have been a ton of potatoes sewn into a filthy jumpsuit.

As Gus and Shawn approached the counter, the potatoes stood up, leaving a man-sized grease mark on the scarred surface. Long hair drizzled from his scalp, tangling into a longer beard.

“Bathrooms are for employees only,” he growled, then settled his bulk down on the counter. “No exceptions.”

“I promise I won’t ask,” Gus said, trying desperately not to imagine what the employee restroom might look like. “I’m looking for car. It’s a blue Echo.”

“License plate?”

Gus pulled out his wallet and slid his vehicle registration across what little part of the counter wasn’t taken up by the attendant’s forearms. Heaving a sigh deep enough to rearrange most of the smaller spuds in his jumpsuit, the attendant leaned down and pulled a laptop computer out of a drawer, then typed Gus’ information on the keyboard.

“That will be six thousand dollars,” the attendant said.

“Six thousand dollars!” Gus heard the shriek coming out of his mouth before he could close it. “That’s not possible.”

“For that much money, you should just get a new one,” Shawn said.

“That’s a company car, Shawn. Do you have any idea what that means?”

“That you don’t even own it, so we shouldn’t care if it gets crushed?”

“Not exactly,” Gus said. “It means I’ve been entrusted with the responsibility to take care of a valuable piece of equipment owned by Central Coast Pharmaceuticals for use on my sales route. And that it’s my sworn obligation to return it to them in exactly the shape I received it, aside from routine wear and tear.” He turned back to the potatoes. “There must be some kind of mistake.”

“Yeah, and you made it eighty-seven times,” the potatoes said. “Parked in front of a hydrant at the corner of Anacapa and Cruzon.”

Gus pulled the laptop across the counter and stared at the screen.

“That’s where that coffee place is,” he said. “But I never park on the street when I go there. Why would I when there’s a huge lot right down the street?”

“Because you hate cold coffee,” Shawn said. “And when you’ve got to drive it all the way back to the office, every second of cooling counts.”

Gus turned to him, realization, then rage, boiling up inside him. “You did this!”

“Only because I care about your health,” Shawn said. “Once a cup of coffee drops below a hundred fifty degrees, all sorts of bacteria start growing in there. I couldn’t take a chance on giving you food poisoning.”

Gus pointed at the screen. “You parked there an average of twenty-seven minutes each time.”

“Do you think I just pulled that hundred-fifty-degree number out of the air? I was consulting with top coffee professionals.”

“You were flirting with the waitress!”

“Yes, but…” Shawn stopped. “You know, I’ve got no way of justifying that one.”

Gus turned back to the potatoes, his voice trembling. “I need my car. Please.”

“Six thousand dollars. Cash only.”

Gus glanced hopefully into the wallet in case multiple thousands of dollars had spontaneously appeared there. Inside he found the crumpled two-dollar bill he hadn’t been able to spend, since most cashiers had never seen one before and refused to accept it as real money, and a certificate that would have gotten him a free Frogurt Plus with only four more purchases if the store hadn’t gone out of business a year ago.