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you were to write some of them sexy letters in to one of my magazines."
    Jay shook his head and laughed.
    "No. Nothing like that."
    Jay squinted and took a long look at Gene. There was something there underneath all the dirt and stubble that caused a spark in his brain.
    "You know, come to think of it, you look kind of familiar, too.  I used to live around here.  Left about fifteen years ago."
    Then he noticed the name tag with half of the stitches torn that hung loosely on the attendant’s coveralls.
    "Gene. Gene?  Frank’s brother?"
    "Why, yeah."
    Jay smiled and patted his chest. "It’s me, Jay."
    He held out his hand.  Gene gave him a puzzled look. Then his rheumy eyes lit up.  He pulled a dirty rag from one of his back pockets and wiped off his hand before taking Jay’s in a firm grasp.  Gene’s hand felt damp and clammy.
    The hairs on the back of Jay’s neck stood up as Gene held his hand in a tight embrace, looking him straight in the eyes.  Those eyes looked dead, as if there was something hidden behind their blank gaze.
    The smile washed from Jay’s face. He tried to pull his hand loose.  Gene kept pumping it, a yellow-toothed, crooked grin spread on his face from ear to ear. "I’m damned glad to see you, Jay," he said. "I ain’t seen or heard of you in ages."
    Jay gave their entwined hands a little glance and Gene looked down and released his grip. "Sorry ‘bout that," he said, laughing. "It’s just that I don’t see many of the old bunch anymore."
    Jay took in the station lot before he spoke.  The row of derelict junkers, the faded chipped sign over the door on the service building, the cracked and taped glass in the overhead door to the service bay answered his next question more eloquently than Gene ever could.
    "So… How’s business?"
    "Damned poorly.  Ever since they put in that new ski run on the other side of town, all the traffic from the highway drives ten miles on down the road to the next exit.  Not much need for me when they can get a hot dog and a pop twenty-four hours a day down there and save themselves the drive through town.  But, I’ll survive."
    The switch on the pump nozzle kicked out.  Gene walked back to return it to the pump as Jay opened the door and climbed back in behind the wheel.  He was rubbing his right hand, trying to get some of the circulation back into it, when he was startled by tapping on the window.  Gene stood with his hand out.  Jay rolled down the window.
    "Thirty-two bucks," said Gene.
    "Right," Jay said, as he reached into the glove compartment for his wallet.
    He passed Gene two crisp new twenty dollar bills.  Gene pulled a long, leather trucker’s wallet, attached to a loop on his coveralls by a chain, from his back pocket.
    As Gene dug out the change Jay asked, "How’s your dad?"
    Gene’s lips pursed, forming a narrow slit.
    "He’s dead.  This is all mine now."
    He straightened up and gave his domain a thousand-yard stare.
    "All mine.  Since Frank’s gone," he half-whispered.  To Jay, the words seemed tinged with bitterness.
    Gene leaned down and into the window, his face screwed back into that crooked smile.  Jay remembered the story about fake smiles.
    "What are you doing back in these parts?  Last I heard you were working on some book or other."
    Jay was overpowered by Gene’s breath, which stank of Cheetos and beer.
    "Finished it," he said. "I got a call from Meg Taylor about Jack Hauser."
    Gene turned his head snorted up a big, yellow gob which he spat out into the snow.
    "Yeah," he said contemptuously. "That was too bad.  But I don’t see what all the fuss was about with that one.  You probably missed the church stuff, though."
    "Got started late.  The weather, don’t you know?"  Jay turned the key in the ignition and the car hummed to life.
    "You ain’t really missin’ much.  He’d turned into a real pain in the ass."
    Jay bit his tongue. Continuing this conversation much longer might just take him down a long road