Bitsy knew trouble. She watched the old Chevy pull slowly to the
pump, two-tone hood pointed toward 116 and the freeway on ramp. She
was rotating the hotdogs on the cooker, putting aside the shriveled
ones to take home. The man got out, angry and thick armed, faded
tattoos snaking up his neck. From the passenger seat a girl stood,
yanking down the hem of her shorts, wobbling through the door on
high wedge sandals.
“Ten dollars on three.”
She couldn’t have been older than fifteen.
“You need to get yourself out the back right now,” Bitsy said. She
went around the counter, bracing her arms on the thick glass case of lottery
tickets and waited.
© Melinda Kopecky 2009
