Fred Tucker greeted his boss with a hearty “’Morning, Chief,” as Steele entered the station promptly at nine a.m. “Got a bite on your line already.”
“You don’t say? Boy, that was quick. What’s the story?”
“Charlie Osborne, the gas jockey over at Pratt’s Tydol station on the highway, called in to say he saw somebody with a face wound last Saturday night. Wants to give you the details in person.”
“Is he on the job now?”
“No, he works six to midnight on weekends. Says you’ll find him at home this morning.” Fred gave him the address, which was, not surprisingly, on Osborne Lane.
“Any other tips?” asked Steele as he prepared to call on Charlie.
“Not yet, but Millie only got the word out yesterday afternoon. Not everybody has heard yet.”
“You know better than that, Fred. There’s not a body aboveground anywhere in this town who doesn’t know what we’re lookin’ for by now.”
It was a short drive down Newtown Lane to the Osborne Lane turnoff, then almost as far as Cedar Street to Charlie’s house, number 84. Three decades ago Steele would have ridden there on his Indian motorcycle, cutting a dashing figure as the first—and only—member of the East Hampton Town police force. Now, nearing retirement, and with the Indian up on blocks in the garage, he was content to sit behind the wheel of his comfortable 1955 Ford Fairlane Crown Victoria, a recent acquisition that signaled his superior status.
As Steele pulled the patrol car into the driveway, Charlie Osborne came out to meet him. A senior at East Hampton High School, he had a summer job at Pratt’s Service Station, which kept the gas pumps open all night during the summer season.
“Thanks for droppin’ by, Chief,” said Charlie with a handshake. “I called as soon as I heard the news.”
“When was that?” Steele wanted to know.
“Over breakfast,” the young man replied. “Ma heard it last night from Mrs. Edwards down street. I ’spect she woulda told me right then, only she was asleep by the time I got off work. I do the late shift from Friday to Sunday nights. Actually Ma thought maybe it was just a rumor, ’cause everybody was sure Pollock done it, what with her bein’ in his car. But I said wait a minute, maybe there’s somethin’ to it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Come up on the porch and set while I give you the scoop,” said Charlie, and the two men retired to a matching pair of rockers.
“You know Friday’s the busiest night,” Charlie began, “with all the city folks headed out here wantin’ to gas up for the weekend. And Sunday they’re all goin’ in the opposite direction, gassin’ up again for the trip back, so that’s pretty busy, too. Plenty of out-of-town plates pullin’ in and out all night.
“Saturday night’s a lot quieter, mostly local customers, a few day-trippers on the way home. Last Saturday, a little after ten it was, a guy pulls up to the pump and asks where the men’s room is. He’s holdin’ a hankie to his cheek, and it’s soaked with blood. ‘That’s a nasty cut,’ I says, and he says, ‘Yeah, I fell in the parking lot, right on my face. I need to clean it up.’ So I point him to the john and ask if he wants gas. He says sure, fill ’er up, but don’t bother with under the hood ’cause he’s in a rush, and anyway it’s a rental.”
“Do you remember which cheek?”
“The left one, on the window side. Anyway, I pumped the gas while he was in the john. When he came out he was still holdin’ the hankie on his face, but it looked like he’d washed it out and soaked it in cold water. When he took his hand down to pay me, I got a good look at the damage. He had two nasty scratches right across his cheek, like this.” Charlie ran his fingertips along his cheekbone.
“I told him she took six gallons and he owed me a buck fifty. He handed me two bucks and said to keep the change. That’s another reason I remember him—not many city folks are good tippers.”
“How do you know he was from the city?”
“His plates. They had a KN prefix, that’s Kings County—Brooklyn. I don’t remember the numbers, but he said it was a rental, so it shouldn’t be too hard to trace. He wasn’t kiddin’ when he said he was in a hurry. He pulled out real quick and gunned it, goin’ west, to my surprise.”
“How so?”
“The only strangers headed west on a Saturday night are the day-trippers, almost always fishermen with tackle or families who been to the beach or the farm stands, so their cars’re loaded with stuff. His car had nothin’ in it but him, and he was wearin’ city clothes, not country casual. Looked more like a businessman than a tourist.”
Steele complimented Osborne on his excellent memory and remarkable eye for detail. “You’re on the ball, Charlie. If I ever get the budget for a detective, you should definitely apply.”