Chapter Fourteen

Achingly stereotypical, the mini-mart/gas station where Azad worked was straight out of an episode of The Simpsons. A burly guy busting out of a worn, short-sleeved blue shirt stood behind the counter and telegraphed with his frown that he had a baseball bat within reach. Jarvis ignored the nonexistent line of customers and grabbed a pack of gum and a Slim Jim, just because he thought they were extinct.

 

Handing the guy a five, he tested the guy’s language skills despite the apparent south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line heritage. “Azad Hekmatier work here?” The clerk, probably night manager, didn’t like being asked or he had trouble multi-tasking. He silently made change but raised his eyebrows to confirm he would be perfectly happy to swing the bat at a guy’s head. Jarvis failed to convey extreme agitation or knee-weakening fear.

 

“There was an accident. I’m trying to find next of kin.”

 

“Yeah? What kinda fuckin’ accident? He pee on hisself?” This was apparently the funniest thing he’d heard in hours because he tilted his head back and laughed like a donkey objecting to being asked to pull a plow. Jarvis could see ancient silver fillings in otherwise gray teeth.

 

“Maybe. The explosion was pretty bad. Might’ve been enough to scare a kid into urinating.”

 

The laugh ended and the clerk’s head snapped forward. Curious, not concerned. “Don’t tell me the little raghead was a terrorist? He blow sumpin’ up with one a’ them bomb vests?”

 

Jarvis resisted the urge to reach behind the counter for the bat. “Did he wear a turban?”

 

The guy shook his head. “Nah, not around me. He was just, ya know, obviously a Paki or somethin’. Whatever. So what explosion?”

 

“Gas line.” He opened the gum, noticing now that it was Brin’s brand. “He have friends, or people he hung out with?”

 

The laugh again. “Around here? Hey, the guy mopped the floor and wiped the toilet. When I was tired he ran the register. He was a scrub.” He stopped for a second, scratching his belly through the shirt. “Always wearin’ a suit, though, even plungin’ the toilet. He was in school, or somethin’. Wanted to get a job or study some stupid fuckin’ science or somethin’. I dunno.”

 

Jarvis looked around the dump. Stepping stone, he thought. The kid had bigger plans, but for some reason they included poisoning Brin. “He have a locker or any place he kept his stuff?”

 

The clerk pointed to an opening leading to a storage room. “He had some shit in a locker back there. How’d you know?”

 

“You mind if a take a look? There might be something there to help find his family.”

 

“Hey, is the little dick dead or somethin’? Is he comin’ back? I mean, he’s got a shift tonight.”

 

Jarvis fantasized about the guy pulling the bat out and how easy it would be to take it from him. “No, he’s hurt, won’t be coming in. The locker?”

 

“Yeah, whatever, it’s the third one. There’s only three. Go ‘head.”

 

Jarvis went past the counter and into the back. It looked exactly like he’d expected. Apparently the clerk had never asked Azad to use his mop in this area. The locker was misnamed; it was closed but nothing interfered with changing that except pulling up on the bent metal slide that scraped as Jarvis gave it a hard yank. The only thing remarkable about the contents was the contrast between the mess outside the locker and the meticulous organization within. Clean, pressed shirt on a hanger, several books stacked neatly on the floor, an extra pair of well-shined shoes next to them. Jarvis picked up the books and flipped through them. A heavy textbook on civics, a slimmer one containing the plays of several modern but dead white men, and a lab primer for organic chemistry. They were all stamped with Cal State Northridge on the inside cover.

 

On the shelf, chin-level to Jarvis, papers in an equally neat pile lined up with pencils, pens, and a spray can of Axe Body Wash. The locker smelled faintly of the teen cologne. Atop the stack of papers, several receipts were held together by a plastic green triangle, one of those cool paperclips that didn’t work as well as the old-fashioned metal curlicues. He picked it up and flipped through. Half a dozen from local sandwich shops. Three from a private postal service where people could rent boxes or have mail sent and held. They were COD, all for the same amount, with the sender somewhere in Wisconsin. Jarvis pocketed all the receipts and went back out into the store.

 

“You gonna buy somethin’ else? Maybe know someone who might wanna job?” The clerk was obviously thinking about the double shift he was going to have to pull, probably saddened by all the poetry books he wasn’t going to get to read tonight.

 

“The boy went to school. Did he talk about that? Mention any friends?”

 

Jarvis almost mouthed the words as they came out of the manager’s mouth. “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout what he fuckin’ did, ‘cept wanna take a day off next week when he shoulda been plannin’ on workin’.”

 

Instead of walking out, Jarvis fixed him with his best “I’m a detective which is almost a cop so you better answer” stare. “Why did he need time off?”

 

The manager shrugged. “I dunno.” Apparently that wasn’t true. “Said he needed to go see some friend of his, outta town or somethin’. Probably another fuckin’ a-rab terrorist.”

 

He’d made his point and went back to scratching his belly. Jarvis left and didn’t hear the man’s parting comment.