At K-Mart he parks far out on the lot. Shopping-cart scratches are a heartache he can do without for the moment.
There it is, a Mercedes with the headlights left on. He pauses, expecting a time-lapse switch on the four-door deep maroon sedan. Mac, ever the auto magazine devotee, can name the year and approximate list if asked. He attends reverently, as before a shrine to the skill of earning ridiculous money.
Skirting the perimeter, he satisfies himself regarding small details and special-edition insignias while the lights continue to not go off. Perhaps a malfunction. He waits. Or maybe the driver just forgot to flip the switch.
A good deed is in the wind.
Mac tries the driver's door.
A shrill howl emerges, as if from the deep reaches of the earth below; it careens and slides, painful to hear. Mac gets dizzy before he becomes fully aware that it is an alarm on the Mercedes itself. The scene attracts attention from arriving shoppers. Mac races about the car, seeking some desperate remedy. It does not occur to him to leave the scene.
The sound continues, changing beats now like an ambulance siren. He is still fingering crevices and possible hidden entries when two patrol cars arrive. Mac looks up and grins. Help is here at last. He tries to make out the name tags on the officers but they are moving quickly and warily. The faces are unfamiliar: rookies. "Great! Glad ya showed up. I been tryin' to—"
"Okay. Turn around, hands on your head." Mac's confusion is interpreted as resistance and the request has to be gruffly repeated. Finally he turns and gets frisked. His explanations go unheeded.
While he is contained in the back of the patrol car the owner of the Mercedes appears. The kind of guy who looks naked not wearing a suit, casual in shorts. He's brought for a look at Mac. He purses his lips contemptuously, then reaches slowly in his pocket for the keys. The cessation of the alarm deafens them like sudden immersion. Then some agreement appears to be worked out and Mac is driven away.
They are about to pull out on Louisville when another patrol car edges up crosswise. Mac grins. It's Pat, an officer of personal acquaintance. After an openwindowed exchange with the arresting officer, he pulls up slightly further and meets Mac's gaze.
Pat's face, thin and fairskinned Irish, deflates visibly. He signals the junior officer to hold on.
Pat gets out and leans in the window, getting the story from Mac. He asks the officer if the headlights were indeed on at arrival, irrespective of the alarm. The officer becomes dismayed at his loss of memory. The other officer is consulted: affirmative. Pat waves over the owner of the Mercedes.
Pretty quickly the man is red in the face, shoving his finger in Mac's direction. Pat stands for a moment, then says something very quietly. Mac wishes he could hear. Then the man gets into the car, slamming the door with a violent metallic ring.
Mac is released from the back seat cage.
Pat, displaying fatigue, talks a little longer with the rookies before they leave. Then he and Mac are alone. "Thanks, Pat. Owe you one for sure."
"Mac. Don't you know that no good intention goes unpunished."
"I didn't want the battery to go down."
"Yeah, I know, but . . . Mac. Listen. Does it ever occur to you when something like this happens . . . did you just figure that for any old car?"
Mac cites the approximate production run on the model, estimates the range of US purchase price in dollars. Pat does a long pause.
"Yes, but this jerk, this owner, did you take him for someone you needed to do a favor?"
"Uh, didn't think about it really."
"Mac—a guy like that, you think he gives a flip, do you think it hurts him to have to buy a battery?"
Mac's face eager like a child in a Little Rascals episode:"Nobody ought to buy something they don't have to."
"Okay. You remember that time you brought into the station a wallet that was empty except for the driver's license? You saw it just driving by, saw it lying in the grass beside the road, I believe?"
"On Standifer, 3400 block, just past the water treatment plant. It was a Thursday, and I was going to. . ."
"Yeah. Now listen. They detained you three hours while checking it out."
"That's okay, I didn't mind."
"What if, I don't know—what if that person had been turned out to be the victim of assault, or murder? How would that have looked for you?"
Mac slowly surrenders a shrug.
Pat begins to try again, but stops short. It's impossible to go any further.
He endures some small talk about who's going to be the new Mayor, what grades his kids are in now. "Mac. Stay out of trouble, okay?"
"Sure thing, Pat. Thanks a lot."
The black and white departs. Sitting in his car Mac contemplates the missed opportunity to see parts of the jail he'd not yet encountered in public tour visits.
