Lark by Richard; Forrest

office and looked annoyed. “Yeah?”
    â€œFill her up and check under the hood,” Lark said. He pulled the hood release.
    The attendant set the pump nozzle in the gas tank and slouched over to the front of the truck and raised the hood. “Down a quart,” he said.
    â€œPut in the cheapest,” Lark said. “Do you know a girl named Vicky Stanton?”
    â€œI sell oil and gasoline, mister, nothing else.” He inverted an oilcan over the engine block.
    Lark left the truck to get a better view of the attendant. His face was pockmarked from old acne scars. He was of medium build with coal-black hair and dark, emotionless eyes. “Vicky Stanton?” Lark repeated.
    The attendant slammed the hood and flipped the oilcan into a waste receptacle. “Cash or credit card?”
    Lark handed him a twenty-dollar bill and went into the service bay. The attendant returned to the small office, made change, and went into the bay to give Lark the money.
    â€œYou didn’t answer me,” Lark said. “This your bike?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYou should be more careful with it,” Lark said as his foot lashed out and knocked the motorcycle off its stand and crashed it down into the concrete.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you?” the attendant screamed. “You crazy or something?” He rushed to lift the cycle and prop it erect.
    â€œYou didn’t answer me,” Lark said quietly as he kicked the motorcycle over for the second time.
    â€œHey!” The attendant looked at his fallen machine in horror. “You faggot bastard!” He picked up a tire iron from the floor. “I’m going to break your head.”
    Lark took two steps across the bay’s apron as the attendant stepped forward with the tire iron raised over his head. The iron swung forward toward Lark’s head. Lark stepped into the blow and parried it with an openhanded chop just above the elbow. The tire iron clattered to the floor. Lark continued his forward momentum and used his other hand in another chopping motion to the larynx.
    The attendant grasped his neck with both hands as he fell to the floor making heaving, gasping sounds. Lark looked down at him dispassionately and noticed that he wore a male version of the L.L. Bean boots.
    â€œWhere’d you get the shoes?” he asked.
    The attendant’s breathing began to return to normal, but he remained on the floor, as if afraid that if he stood Lark would knock him down again. “From a mail-order house in Maine. You ask crazy questions. What do you want? The money’s in the till. I won’t give you no trouble.”
    â€œI’m ‘the man’ to you, kid. I’m not here to take the money.” He flipped his badge open. “On your feet.”
    The attendant scrambled up and stood with his back pressed against the wall. “I got rights, you know.”
    â€œI’ll bet you have. What’s your name and show me some ID.”
    â€œLawton. Mike Lawton.” His fingers scratched at his jean’s pocket for a wallet and driver’s license. “I don’t know you. You aren’t from Warren.”
    Lark flicked his finger toward the small office, and Mike Lawton stumbled into the small, square room and sat down in a worn captain’s chair in front of an ancient desk covered with greasy receipts and charge slips.
    Lark sat on the edge of the desk. “Vicky Stanton?”
    â€œWhat about her?”
    â€œMy, we have a poor attitude, don’t we?”
    â€œWhat do you want from me, mister? I know her. We went out a couple of times. What do you want to know?”
    â€œI want to know everything, but let’s start with those shoes you’re wearing; they’re like a pair she had on.”
    â€œI got them for her, that’s what she wanted. She came by the station one day with this mail-order form and said I was to get her a money order at the