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And by ‘baseball bat’, I mean an actual Louisville slugger. Not what you might be thinking after all my ridiculous, double entendres.

I stood up quickly and put my hands out defensively, trying my best to look like a harmless, doughy, clothing executive who was no real threat to anyone, least of all armed gas station attendants. Call it typecasting. As I waved my hands to show I was unarmed, the keys jingled in my fingers.

“Hey!” Morgan said. “You’ve got the keys!”

“What?” I said, mock surprised. “Goodness. Look a that.”

“You had them the whole time, and you didn’t know,” Morgan sniffed, amused. “What a dick!”

“Get out of that car!” Barney snarled, and Morgan snapped his mouth shut so hard sparks shot out from between his teeth.

“This is my car…” I began, then shut up too as Barney cocked the bat.

“This ain’t nobody’s car till they pay the fine!” Barney howled.

“Which I will be glad to do once I open this envelope and…”

“That’s impounded, too!” Barney cut in, and snagged the thing from my nervous fingers. Only a couple of loose bills remained with me. “And we ain’t responsible for any lost nor stolen articles, neither!” Barney glanced around furtively for unwelcome eyes, then opened the envelope and thumbed through the cash inside. His eyes widened at the number and quality of illegal tender he found, and a breathless sigh slipped out of him, much the way a satisfied lover slips out of bed, careless and content.

“Whooooa, mama.”

Ah. So Barney made a little on the side in the car-impound business. I wondered if River got a ‘finder’s fee’.

“Well,” I said, slowly and calmly, Mister Rodgers-like, “If you take all my cash, I can’t pay you to get my car back, now can I?”

Barney looked puzzled. But not for the reason I’d hoped.

“So?” he said.

So, indeed. What did it matter to him? He could have the cash, and keep the car here forever. I looked over at some of the other, dirty, dead, and sun-faded vehicles littering his ‘impound lot’, most of which appeared to have been here since the dawn of the automotive age. Clearly, outfoxing even this simpleton would require some brains. Where was Wisper when you needed her?

“Get out of that car,” Barney said again, threatening.

Slowly, I did as I was told, and Morgan, who had stood by watching in awe the entire time, moved closer to me so I could shield him from any potential Barney thrashing.

Cautiously, with Barney making occasional threatening pumps on the bat, each of which caused Morgan and I to flinch as if we’d actually been struck, we backed away, out of the gas station, and into the middle of the street. Barney took one last threatening swing at us, we ducked, and he backed toward the Duesenberg so he could lean his bare ass against it, without even bothering to look around for a towel first. An obvious act of defiance. He continued to stare at us, bat at the ready—both bats, actually—and I turned to Morgan.

“That’s all the money we have here.”

“How are we going to eat?” he asked, again missing a few of the more pressing matters at hand.

“How are we going to do anything?” I asked him. Then I remembered the bills in my hand. Was there enough for…

Before I could even get a good look at them, the chef, and cops ran over to us, calling out angrily for Morgan and I to stay where we were.

“I’m sorry,” I said to them. “I’m really sorry. I left my money in my car, and…“

One of the cops snagged the cash from my hand and turned to the chef from the Headless Horseman.

“You should have stopped,” the cop said, without looking at me and counting through the bills. “We could have sorted this out without all the running. How much does he owe you, Denny?”

“Eleven fifty. Plus a tip for Nikki.”

The cop peeled off a bill and handed it to him. “Keep the change.” Then the officer turned and glared at me. “Call it an exercise fee.”

He handed me my remaining bill, and the three men walked off back toward town.

“Is there enough left to buy some lunch?” Morgan asked pathetically.

“Who cares about lunch,” I said, shoving the crinkly cash into a pocket. “How are we going