Bo's Café Read Online Free PDF

my driver’s license. “Why, you can’t live five miles from here.” I give a weak
     nod, saying nothing. He looks at my bag, back at me, and then back at my bag again. He gives an awkward smile, as if he suddenly
     realizes he may have stumbled into a guy hiding from the law or something. Snatching up my license, a pen, and a room agreement,
     he drops them onto the counter, all in one noisy and flustered motion. I mumble something about relatives in town and scrawl
     out my name on the contract, all while moving away from the counter to the elevator.
    I soon discover that a Marriott room at a resort destination and a Marriott room at a business park are two different animals.
     Mine has a bed, a “workstation,” a smaller television, and a view of the top floor of a parking garage. It’ll do. I’m not
     going to be here long. I open a can of nuts from the minibar, kick off my shoes, and flop back against the bed headboard,
     soon staring at an oil painting of a bowl of fruit.
Very edgy, Mr. Marriott. Very edgy.
    I’m not calling her. She’ll call me when she feels bad enough, realizing I’m taking the hit for all this. I grab the channel
     changer and mindlessly surf cable stations, eventually lying in the dark, fighting this nagging thought that I should probably
     get up, put on some shoes, and walk down the hall for a bucket of ice. But I’m too drained to do anything about it. I think
     those were my last thoughts as I fell asleep to the sounds of the Food Channel, a half-eaten can of mixed nuts sitting on
     my chest.

The Bluff Facing South
    (Tuesday Evening, March 17)
    Day six. I’m still sleeping at the Marriott. I’ve talked twice to Lindsey. All business and very cryptic. She did say, “I
     just need some time, Steven. I’ll call you and we can talk about what comes next.” I’ve stopped by the house several times
     when they’re gone, to pick up mail and more clothes. I’ve talked to Jennifer on the phone once. She seems to be acting like
     I’m away on business, pretending nothing is very wrong or abnormal. She gets that from me, I think.
    I’m discovering I hate eating dinner by myself. The worst part is, you run out of places to look. I need to take a book with
     me. I used to make fun of those nerds who read in public. Now, I’m wondering what they’re reading. And everyone seems to be
     staring and talking about you, like they’re warning their children, “Bobby, if you don’t pay attention in school, you could
     end up like that man—all alone.”
    I’ve chosen to tell no one about what has happened. Nobody needs to know, and I’m pretty sure this won’t last much longer.
    He’s sitting in the Electra as I drive up. I park my Mercedes at the end of the lot. This is the kind of place where someone
     would open his door into yours without thinking twice about it. I get out, hit the Lock button on the remote, and walk toward
     his car. I pause at the passenger door of the Electra.
    “Hop in. You’ll have to reach in and use the inside handle.”
    He’s wearing another gaudy Hawaiian shirt and the same Dodger’s ball cap from the last time I saw him. I have the feeling
     his wardrobe has definite limitations. He puts on his sunglasses and leans over the passenger seat to hand me a pair. “You’ll
     need these.”
    “These” are a clunky pair of black frames with equally black lenses. How anyone is supposed to see through these during the
     day, let alone at night, is beyond me.
    “No, thanks. I’m good,” I say, but he presses the glasses toward me with a look that says he won’t take no for an answer.
     To move things along, I put them on.
    As I look at Andy’s self-satisfied grin, I’m having second thoughts about this trip. I’m not a very good passenger. I drive;
     I don’t ride. But, even this seems better than spending another evening sitting around in my Marriott cell, room number 643.
    I so want to tell Andy that I’m onto him—that I know all about his