The little guy came over to the edge of the dock and stood with his boot tips hanging over and looked at the cars. Lucerno’s Fine Meats was embroidered on the back of his coveralls with red thread and FRANK was sewn over his left breast pocket. His face was sour and lined, like maybe he’d just checked his lunch pail and discovered that his wife had given him a roach sandwich. He said, “Jesus Christ, where’d you learnta drive? Wait here a minute.” He went back into the warehouse. The two black guys finished loading a dolly of white boxes into a six-by. They took the boxes off the dolly two at a time and slid them into the six-by so hard that the boxes slammed into the truck with a heavy thud. Tenderizing the meat.

In a little while Frank came back and said, “Forget it. You’re off the hook.”

I looked at him. “What do you mean, forget it?” Best-laid plans.

“Just what I said. You had a bad break, but we’re not gonna bust your chops about it. Take off.” The old smash-their-car-and-offer-to-pay-for-it routine wasn’t getting me very far.

I said, “The headlight’s smashed and the bumper’s pretty dinged up and the frame around the light is busted. Maybe the owner should come take a look.”

“It’s a company car. Forget it.”

“I don’t want to forget it. I’m responsible. I oughta pay something to somebody.”

He gave me Desi looking at Lucy, the look saying, Jesus Christ, what did I marry? “I’m giving you a pass, capisce? What, are you stupid?”

I said, “You know, that’s the trouble with America today. Everybody’s looking for a pass. Nobody wants to own up. Well, not me. I own up. I take what’s coming to me. I pay my way.” Maybe I could appeal to his national pride.

One of the black guys adjusted his crotch and laughed. He had two gold inlays on the right side of his mouth. Frank took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “Look, I got work to do. You came in here, you busted the car, and you came looking for someone to do right by it. Great. But I’m standing here telling you that it’s okay. I work here. We seen what happened and it’s okay. I’m telling you that you ain’t gotta pay a dime, you ain’t gotta say you’re sorry, you ain’t gotta do dick. Okay?”

“But you don’t own the car?”

He spread his hands and blinked. “What?”

“And you don’t own the company.”

“What?” His voice was getting higher.

“If you don’t own the car and you don’t own the company, then how do I know you’ve got the right to tell me it’s okay?”