the left lane and he couldn’t swerve back in time to make the exit.
His head swiveled and he saw the roof of the Mercedes sink below the level of the highway as it slowed on the ramp.
LeFevre slammed his fists on the wheel. Tantrums were definitely not Poitier’s style but he couldn’t help it. He thought about making an illegal U over the median, but he was a black kid with knobby dreads driving through the crucible of the Confederacy; the fewer laws he broke, the better.
The next exit was a mile down the highway and by the time he’d followed the Möbius strip of ramps and returned to the exit the Mercedes had taken, there was no sign of the big car—only an intersection of three different country roads, any one of which they might have taken.
And now that he thought about it, the doctor might just have stopped for gas and gotten back onto the interstate, continuing west.
He closed his eyes in frustration and pressed back hard into the headrest. Metal snapped.
What the hell’m I doing here?
The stuff love makes you do, he thought.
Hate it, hate it, hate it . . .
LeFevre pulled into the gas station, filled up at the self-service island then walked up to the skinny, sullen attendant with long hair sprouting from under a Valvoline giveaway cap, which was as greasy as his brown strands.
“How you doing?” Sidney Poitier asked very politely.
“Okay yourself?” the man muttered.
“Not bad. Not bad.”
The man stared at LeFevre’s hair, which was not exactly modeled on Mr. Poitier’s, circa 1967, but was much closer to a rap star’s.
“Helpya?”
It occurred to LeFevre that even Officer Tibbs, in suit, tie and polished oxfords, wouldn’t get a lot of cooperation from a guy like this by asking which way a seventy-thousand-dollar automobile had just gone.
At least, not without some incentive.
LeFevre opened his wallet and extracted five twenties. Looked down at them.
So did the attendant. “That’s cash.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You charged your gas. I seen you.”
“I did.”
“Well, whatsitfor?” The grimy hair swung as he nodded at the money.
“It’s for you,” LeFevre said in his most carefully crafted queen’s English.
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Why’s it for me?” The man seemed to sneer.
“I have a little problem.”
The stubbly face asked, Who cares?
“I was driving down sixty-six and this Mercedes cut me off, ran me off the road. Nearly killed me.” (This had happened to Sidney Poitier in In the Heat of the Night. More or less.) “Did it on purpose. The driver, I mean.”
“Don’t say.” The man yawned.
“Front end’s all screwed up now. And see what kind of bodywork I’ll need?”
Thank goodness, LeFevre thought. He’d never fixed the damage after he’d scraped the side of the car on a barricade when he’d dropped his mother off at Neiman Marcus in Tysons Corner last month.
The attendant looked at the car without a splinter of interest.
“So you want me to lookit the front end?”
“No, I want the license number of that Mercedes. He came by here five, ten minutes ago. I was hoping he stopped here for gas.”
This had seemed like a good way to break the ice—asking for the license number. It made things official—as if the police were going to get involved. LeFevre believed this trick was definitely something that Sidney Poitier would do.
“Why’d he run you off the road?” the man asked abruptly.
Which brought LeFevre up cold.
“Well, I don’t know.” LeFevre shrugged. Then he asked, “You know which car I mean?” He remainedrespectful but asked this firmly. He’d decided not to be too polite. Sidney Poitier had glared at Rod Steiger quite a bit.
“Maybe.”
“So he stopped here for gas.”
“Nope.” The scrawny guy looked at the money. Then he shook his head; his slick grin gave LeFevre an unpleasant glimpse of bad teeth. “Fuck. Why’re you bullshittin’ me? You don’t want that tag number.”
“Um, I—”
“What you want
His head swiveled and he saw the roof of the Mercedes sink below the level of the highway as it slowed on the ramp.
LeFevre slammed his fists on the wheel. Tantrums were definitely not Poitier’s style but he couldn’t help it. He thought about making an illegal U over the median, but he was a black kid with knobby dreads driving through the crucible of the Confederacy; the fewer laws he broke, the better.
The next exit was a mile down the highway and by the time he’d followed the Möbius strip of ramps and returned to the exit the Mercedes had taken, there was no sign of the big car—only an intersection of three different country roads, any one of which they might have taken.
And now that he thought about it, the doctor might just have stopped for gas and gotten back onto the interstate, continuing west.
He closed his eyes in frustration and pressed back hard into the headrest. Metal snapped.
What the hell’m I doing here?
The stuff love makes you do, he thought.
Hate it, hate it, hate it . . .
LeFevre pulled into the gas station, filled up at the self-service island then walked up to the skinny, sullen attendant with long hair sprouting from under a Valvoline giveaway cap, which was as greasy as his brown strands.
“How you doing?” Sidney Poitier asked very politely.
“Okay yourself?” the man muttered.
“Not bad. Not bad.”
The man stared at LeFevre’s hair, which was not exactly modeled on Mr. Poitier’s, circa 1967, but was much closer to a rap star’s.
“Helpya?”
It occurred to LeFevre that even Officer Tibbs, in suit, tie and polished oxfords, wouldn’t get a lot of cooperation from a guy like this by asking which way a seventy-thousand-dollar automobile had just gone.
At least, not without some incentive.
LeFevre opened his wallet and extracted five twenties. Looked down at them.
So did the attendant. “That’s cash.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You charged your gas. I seen you.”
“I did.”
“Well, whatsitfor?” The grimy hair swung as he nodded at the money.
“It’s for you,” LeFevre said in his most carefully crafted queen’s English.
“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Why’s it for me?” The man seemed to sneer.
“I have a little problem.”
The stubbly face asked, Who cares?
“I was driving down sixty-six and this Mercedes cut me off, ran me off the road. Nearly killed me.” (This had happened to Sidney Poitier in In the Heat of the Night. More or less.) “Did it on purpose. The driver, I mean.”
“Don’t say.” The man yawned.
“Front end’s all screwed up now. And see what kind of bodywork I’ll need?”
Thank goodness, LeFevre thought. He’d never fixed the damage after he’d scraped the side of the car on a barricade when he’d dropped his mother off at Neiman Marcus in Tysons Corner last month.
The attendant looked at the car without a splinter of interest.
“So you want me to lookit the front end?”
“No, I want the license number of that Mercedes. He came by here five, ten minutes ago. I was hoping he stopped here for gas.”
This had seemed like a good way to break the ice—asking for the license number. It made things official—as if the police were going to get involved. LeFevre believed this trick was definitely something that Sidney Poitier would do.
“Why’d he run you off the road?” the man asked abruptly.
Which brought LeFevre up cold.
“Well, I don’t know.” LeFevre shrugged. Then he asked, “You know which car I mean?” He remainedrespectful but asked this firmly. He’d decided not to be too polite. Sidney Poitier had glared at Rod Steiger quite a bit.
“Maybe.”
“So he stopped here for gas.”
“Nope.” The scrawny guy looked at the money. Then he shook his head; his slick grin gave LeFevre an unpleasant glimpse of bad teeth. “Fuck. Why’re you bullshittin’ me? You don’t want that tag number.”
“Um, I—”
“What you want
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