afterward. I want you to be the point man if anything happens while I’m up there. Okay? Nick will be at the radio, but if you need extra hands, he can jump in.”
There was a highway patrol interceptor parked at the curb down by the barber shop. Danny hadn’t been notified there would be a state presence in town. She didn’t see the uniform that went with it; maybe somebody was moonlighting, or had to drop off a subpoena or something. Still…professional courtesy said you tipped your hat to the local fuzz.
There was something bothering her, a sense of off-balance. It was probably only the raging hangover, but Danny never wrote off “one of those feelings.” Ted was noisily clearing his throat. Some sugar had gone down the wrong way. He gave Danny the thumbs-up, unable to speak. Danny thumped him on the back and turned toward the Wooden Spoon, because the churro and the throbbing in her head had reminded her of something: the prisoner in cell one would need to eat. And in Forest Peak, the jailhouse kitchen and the local café were the same place.
The big woman who delivered the breakfast had aluminum-colored hair and a smiley-face nametag on her blouse that read Betty . Weaver asked for Tabasco. Patrick tried to change the subject, whatever that had been. Anything to take his mind off the squalor of this rustic little flypit in the mountains.
“It’s like Deliverance without the river,” he whispered.
“Just eat,” Weaver said, accepting the Tabasco from Betty with a gracious John Wayne inclination of the head. “I want to see the news.”
Then a red-eyed fellow turned around to face Weaver. He looks like that singer from that band , Patrick thought. Or a drug addict .
“You see it coming, right?” Red-Eye said. He was sitting at the next table, submerging a plate of pancakes in syrup and ketchup. He tapped the air with a finger. His nails were bitten down until the tips of his fingers looked like raw steak.
Weaver stabbed his eggs in the eyes with a sharp piece of toast. “What’s that, brother?”
Patrick could see Red-Eye thought he maybe had a sympathetic ear. Emphasis on the pathetic part. His teeth were awful.
“Something,” the man said. “War on D-R-U-G-Z, war on poverty, unliteracy, cancer, dietary supplements, and terror? One in a hundred Americans is behind bars, and people keep celebrating the Fourth like ‘freedom’ meant something. It’s bullshit. They’re up to something.”
At the counter directly behind Red-Eye, an old-timer in Caterpillar cap and suspenders turned from his hash browns to inspect the author of these treasonous words.
“Zap Owler, you communist asshole, we stop celebrating Independence Day, the terrorists win,” the old-timer reasoned. His name was Eugene, or at least his coveralls had a patch that said Eugene on the breast pocket.
Zap Owler turned in his chair as if Eugene had flashed a badge at him.
“What terrorists?”
“They could be anybody. Could be you.” Eugene obviously figured he had Owler trumped.
Patrick ate elaborately, hoping to demonstrate he wasn’t part of the conversation. But Weaver turned to face the clashing locals:
“Day like today means whatever you bring to it.”
Eugene nodded in agreement. “You got that right.” But Weaver wasn’t done.
“Then again, can’t mix patriotism with going along to get along, either. That’s what happened to the Germans a while back.”
“But you can’t say there are no terrorists,” Eugene protested.
“I’m not. But we better damn well stop using them as an excuse for what we do to people.”
Zap Owler was about to add something when Betty interposed her massive behind between the men to cut off any further argument, pouring coffee refills.
Eugene’s eyes drifted saintlike to the taxidermied deer head up above the front door: “I didn’t slaughter all them Koreans just so I could sit here and watch some dingleberry piss on the flag. Nosir. We get into a war on terror, we
There was a highway patrol interceptor parked at the curb down by the barber shop. Danny hadn’t been notified there would be a state presence in town. She didn’t see the uniform that went with it; maybe somebody was moonlighting, or had to drop off a subpoena or something. Still…professional courtesy said you tipped your hat to the local fuzz.
There was something bothering her, a sense of off-balance. It was probably only the raging hangover, but Danny never wrote off “one of those feelings.” Ted was noisily clearing his throat. Some sugar had gone down the wrong way. He gave Danny the thumbs-up, unable to speak. Danny thumped him on the back and turned toward the Wooden Spoon, because the churro and the throbbing in her head had reminded her of something: the prisoner in cell one would need to eat. And in Forest Peak, the jailhouse kitchen and the local café were the same place.
The big woman who delivered the breakfast had aluminum-colored hair and a smiley-face nametag on her blouse that read Betty . Weaver asked for Tabasco. Patrick tried to change the subject, whatever that had been. Anything to take his mind off the squalor of this rustic little flypit in the mountains.
“It’s like Deliverance without the river,” he whispered.
“Just eat,” Weaver said, accepting the Tabasco from Betty with a gracious John Wayne inclination of the head. “I want to see the news.”
Then a red-eyed fellow turned around to face Weaver. He looks like that singer from that band , Patrick thought. Or a drug addict .
“You see it coming, right?” Red-Eye said. He was sitting at the next table, submerging a plate of pancakes in syrup and ketchup. He tapped the air with a finger. His nails were bitten down until the tips of his fingers looked like raw steak.
Weaver stabbed his eggs in the eyes with a sharp piece of toast. “What’s that, brother?”
Patrick could see Red-Eye thought he maybe had a sympathetic ear. Emphasis on the pathetic part. His teeth were awful.
“Something,” the man said. “War on D-R-U-G-Z, war on poverty, unliteracy, cancer, dietary supplements, and terror? One in a hundred Americans is behind bars, and people keep celebrating the Fourth like ‘freedom’ meant something. It’s bullshit. They’re up to something.”
At the counter directly behind Red-Eye, an old-timer in Caterpillar cap and suspenders turned from his hash browns to inspect the author of these treasonous words.
“Zap Owler, you communist asshole, we stop celebrating Independence Day, the terrorists win,” the old-timer reasoned. His name was Eugene, or at least his coveralls had a patch that said Eugene on the breast pocket.
Zap Owler turned in his chair as if Eugene had flashed a badge at him.
“What terrorists?”
“They could be anybody. Could be you.” Eugene obviously figured he had Owler trumped.
Patrick ate elaborately, hoping to demonstrate he wasn’t part of the conversation. But Weaver turned to face the clashing locals:
“Day like today means whatever you bring to it.”
Eugene nodded in agreement. “You got that right.” But Weaver wasn’t done.
“Then again, can’t mix patriotism with going along to get along, either. That’s what happened to the Germans a while back.”
“But you can’t say there are no terrorists,” Eugene protested.
“I’m not. But we better damn well stop using them as an excuse for what we do to people.”
Zap Owler was about to add something when Betty interposed her massive behind between the men to cut off any further argument, pouring coffee refills.
Eugene’s eyes drifted saintlike to the taxidermied deer head up above the front door: “I didn’t slaughter all them Koreans just so I could sit here and watch some dingleberry piss on the flag. Nosir. We get into a war on terror, we
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