Morning Man by Barbara Kellyn Page B

seeing Dub’s car already in the station parking lot, but that morning, all the stalls were deserted except the one occupied by the overnight operator’s Jeep. He backed into a spot and scooped up his drive-thru coffee before climbing out. One press of the remote key lock secured his truck as he sauntered to the front door, where the morning papers were scattered in firelog-sized bundles. He stooped to pick one up at the entrance when he heard a ruckus coming from the alley. Probably just a rat or raccoon rummaging through the Dumpster, he thought. But then the raccoon coughed.
    “Hello?” He called out. “Someone back there?”
    The rummaging stopped.
    Chalking it up to random pre-dawn noises, he went back to gathering the newspapers, tucking them under his arm while balancing his coffee. Standing upright, he slid in his door key to unlock the deadbolt when he heard the shuffling again. There was definitely someone behind the station. “I said, who’s back there?”
    The noise abruptly halted and Tack wasn’t about to ask for identification a third time. He put down all the papers except one and skulked around the corner to inspect. One of the advantages of being built like a brick house was that stature afforded one a certain amount of courage in stupid situations, and treading alone into a dark alley armed with nothing but a rolled up newspaper and a cup of coffee certainly qualified as stupid. He jumped up and roared. “Ah-ha!”
    “I swear, didn’t take nothin’ mister,” said a shadowy figure, holding up two trembling hands.
    Tack stayed a safe distance back as he tried to make out the face shielded by a baggy hood. Other than being able to tell that it was a small, slender black man, his features remained largely a mystery. “What are you doing back here?”
    “Nothin’.” The stranger’s voice shook as he stepped back, giving Tack a better view of his shabby, army surplus-style jacket and jeans. “Don’t call the cops. I’m leaving.” He turned around and started pushing a wobbly shopping cart clattering with aluminum cans, bottles and several bulging garbage bags.
    “No wait, you don’t have to go,” Tack called out, realizing that he likely looked the more menacing threat of the two. “I just heard something back here and thought someone was making trouble. But you don’t look like trouble to me.”
    “I don’t mean no trouble,” the man said.
    “I see that. I just heard a strange noise and…” His voice trailed off. He lowered the fierce newspaper he’d been wielding down to his side, feeling foolish for scaring a homeless guy who’d probably been looking for a few empties to cash in. “Here,” he said, handing over his untouched coffee. “No hard feelings, okay pal?”
    The man looked hesitantly at the cup, then up at Tack.
    “Go ahead. It’s good stuff.”
    With his eyes to the ground, he gave a silent nod of thanks and accepted it. Turning away, he pushed off to get his rattling cart rolling with momentum. “It’s time get movin’ anyhow,” he mumbled, continuing down the alley.
    Tack gave the dimly-lit Dumpster one last look when a box wedged behind it caught his eye. He found an old grapefruit crate holding a ratty wool blanket, a chipped plate and a couple of bus tokens. There was probably more inside, but it wasn’t his place to look through a box of someone else’s business that they had either hastily left behind or planned on coming back for later.
    As he returned to the door, a flash of headlights shone on the entrance and a zippy little red VW zoomed into a parking space with a halting screech. Of course that’s what she’d drive. Recognizing the Travis Tritt tune playing through Dayna’s open window, he smiled. She emerged, curls piled high on top of her head, wearing a plush-bunny pink tracksuit that hugged her curves as if they’d been sculpted out of soft, pliable marshmallow. After adjusting the straps of her bag on her shoulder, she crossed the lot