Richard felt the action orbiting six inches outside of his head. It made things muffled, made him shall0w-breath. He thought she'd snapped his photo with her phone. He had hit her only because she was getting in his face, and how the hell did she know he busted the chain? She didn't know that. It had been 45 minutes before and the fat bitch probably wasn't even on shift then.
He gunned it up Interstate. It wasn't yet seven and not much traffic heading north. He parked the Explorer in the big shadows of the Fremont Bridge. The stanchions were huge, not much going on, parked utility trucks and emergency vehicles for the nearly hospital.
He saw what was probably the ambulance carrying the security guard scream past twenty minutes later. He'd hit her pretty card. But that wasn't his fault. She should not have confronted him that way. You don't come up to a man and get in his face about parking. What, did she own the lot? What did she care if he had to stop there? Why did a woman have a job like that anyway? Richard ignored his phone -- Joanne, wanting to know where the car was, no doubt; she could fucking wait -- and listened to talk radio. Five cars in total passed, and then it was eleven.
Richard crept up Williams. He'd ditch the car. He'd have to. There was a construction site just past Fremont; Richard took the left and parked it with the crews trucks. He left the keys on the floor mat.
Richard walked up Williams, past a clot of young snots waiting for restaurant food, probably one of those stupid Portland places that charge $15 for eggs. A cop car went past fast, its lights whirling. Then another. Shit. There was a sign for a coffee shop. Richard put his head down and went in.