My old man was a tough-as-nails mechanic, king of a grimy gas station in a forgotten corner of Rhode Island.
He ruled that place with a wrench in one hand and a secret in the other.
It was the late ’70s, and I was just finishing college — working my last shifts there, pumping gas for locals and fishermen, trying to shake a feeling I couldn’t name.
The neon sign flickered and the wind carried a chill that just wasn’t from the weather.
I was scared — not of the dark, but of a man called Dutch — a bald, hulking ex-con who’d been driving by.
Horn blaring, fist shaking.
He wanted me dead.
And I knew why: when I was twelve, he and his brother came at me with a broom handle and a bicycle chain — and I gave them both a beating.
Now, Dutch was recently out…
LENDZ
