We eased the car out of the parking lot, and I opened the door for Lucille to get in.
I didn’t like it. I wanted a witness. I stopped at a service station and told the attendant I thought we needed air in the rear tyres. I walked around behind the car with him, pushed two dollars into his hand, and said in a loud voice, “Go ahead and drive, Lucille. Since you say it’s your sister’s car, I’d much prefer to have you drive it.”
She shook her head, her chin drooped forward on her chest.
“You’re all right. You aren’t too drunk. You can drive.”
“Sure I’m a’righ’. But I ain’t gonna.”
I didn’t buy any petrol. The attendant would remember me and remember the argument. I winked at him and said “Okay, I’ll drive if you insist, but I’m doing it under protest.”
“It’s all right.”
“This is your brother-in-law’s car?”
“My sister’s car,” she said. “Dover said it hadda be registered in his name. He’s a kind has to be big shot. Otherwise Dover won’t play. M’ sister’s money paid for it — Dover Fulton!” she said, and her voice had a note of disgust.
The attendant washed off the windscreen, puttered around the headlights. I snapped on the petrol gauge, looked at it, smiled, shook my head, and we went away from there.