Shoot the Moon by Joseph T. Klempner

family returning a minivan nearby.
    He boards the bus. When the driver goes to help him with his duffel bags, Goodman politely declines the offer. He rides the bus with the bags on his lap. He realizes he’s only drawing attention to himself, tells himself he’s going to have to try loosen up a little bit.
    “Hey, that’s my baby,” Cuervas tells the Avis attendant who’s about to get into the pink Camry. When the attendant, a large black man, looks at him quizzically, Cuervas explains. “I got her next, special for my daughter’s birthday. She likes pink.”
    “That’s nice,” the man says, as if he couldn’t care less.
    “I ‘preciate it if you could turn her around real fass for me,” Cuervas says, and to show just how much he would appreciate it, he extends a $50 bill in the man’s direction. The man takes it, never taking his eyes off Cuervas’s.
    “ Real fass,” Cuervas repeats. “An’ let ‘em know at the counter as soon as it’s ready I’m in a big hurry.”
    “No problem,” the man says.
    At the main terminal, Goodman finds the Avis counter and gets on line. When he makes it to the front of the line, he asks the rate for a oneway rental to New York City. After punching up some numbers on the computer, the attendant, a young man with blond hair, gives him the news.
    “For a midsize car, I can give you a rate of $46 a day, unlimited mileage-”
    Goodman is pleasantly surprised, and is in the process of multiplying forty-six by two, then three, when he hears the bad news.
    “And there’s a one-way drop-off charge of $250.”
    Goodman knows his credit card can’t take a hit like that. “Thanks,” he says. “Let me think about it a bit.” He turns, lifts his bags, and walks away from the counter.
    Goodman is gone less than a minute when a Hispanic man with a droopy mustache ignores the line and walks directly to the Avis attendant with the red hair and the big breasts.
    Cuervas pays no attention to the complaints muttered by the people waiting on line. “My pink Camry,” he tells the woman. “She’s back.”
    “Oh, Mr.-”
    “Velez. Antonio Velez.”
    “Mr. Velez,” she repeats. She checks her computer. The people on line mutter some more, but she ignores them, too. “I’m sorry,” she says, “they’re still servicing it.”
    “I don’t need it serviced,” Cuervas tells her. “I need it now.”
    “Let me see what I can do,” she says, and picks up the phone.
    Goodman stops at the Delta counter, asks about a one-way ticket to New York.
    “I can put you on our flight five-sixty-two to Kennedy,” he’s told. “It leaves at twelve-oh-one.”
    Goodman has a theory about the number 562. He’s convinced it comes up more often than any other three-digit number. Were he a gambler, he’d play the number. But he doesn’t even know how you go about betting on a number. Nonetheless, he figures flight 562 is a good omen.
    “How much would that be?” he asks. He’s down to $47.47, plus a $100 in traveler’s checks.
    “That would come to $229.”
    “Okay,” he says, and fishes out his Visa card. Again he holds his breath, but it seems that Delta isn’t checking credit cards too closely this day. A machine spits out his ticket and boarding pass.
    “How many bags will you be checking?”
    Goodman freezes for a moment. Do they search bags? Run them through an X-ray machine?
    “I don’t know yet,” he says. “I’m going to buy a few things before I check them in. Is that okay?”
    “Sure.”
    After a few minutes on the phone, the redhead tells Raul Cuervas that his car is ready. She gives him a big smile, like maybe she expects another fifty. But Cuervas is finished with her.
    He takes the stupid little red bus to the pickup area and spots his Camry. He opens the trunk and lifts the lid covering the spare tire. It’s there, good as new, nicely bolted down. He gives it a push with his thumb; it feels nice and hard. He closes the lid, slams the trunk.
    He gets in behind