Shaking his head, he rolled down his window. He hoped it was a weapons check. Those went quickly. Even the drug searches were tolerable, when the cops had enough dogs.
On the other side of the street, a middle-aged couple in sweat suits jogged slowly down the sidewalk. A cop stopped them. When they raised their left wrists, the evening Sun glinted off laminated plastic. The cop peered closely at each bracelet.
Field chuckled. God, he loved to see fitness freaks forced to produce their running permits. Silly health nazis, limping through life with swollen ankles, shin splints, bad knees and aching backs, all in the pursuit of health. Great hearts and lungs, of course. Those folks wound up with cardiovascular systems tough enough to keep them alive through a few hip replacements, a decade of Alzheimer’s, and who could know how many years of incontinence?
The cop pulled a flashlight from his belt and shone it in the eyes of the male jogger. The man recoiled. The cop’s other hand dropped to his holster; his mouth worked. The man gestured vigorously—the woman patted his shoulder—the man stood still. A moment later, the cop was cuffing the man and marching him over to a small blue and white van parked at the corner.
“Yes!” Field laughed long and loudly, and beat the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. Oh, God, it was sweet to see a runner busted for suspected endorphin intoxication.
He wanted to lean out his car window and shout, “Still think the War on Drugs is a good thing, Marathon Man?”
Field kept his mouth shut, of course. Not only would hurling a question full of insult have attracted undue attention, he doubted his shoulders would fit through the window frame.
Besides, the Endo-Intox test belonged to him, and his firm was just about to make another dollar forty-nine…
Three miles and ninety minutes later, he parked in the lot alongside Jackson’s Famous Ribs, and began the laborious process of exiting the vehicle. He hit the “Disembark” button on the dashboard computer and followed the checklist required by law.
Tires at 45 degree angle to the nonexistent curb, check.
Parking brake on, check.
Lights off, check.
Environment control system off, check.
Car phone off check.
Radio off check.
Antenna retracted, check.
Windows closed, check.
Power-on switch key removed, check.
Steering wheel clubbed, check.
Smoke alarm functional, check.
Seat belt removed, check.
Passengers disembarked, check.
Passenger doors locked, check.
Car alarm triggered, check.
Dashboard computer into standby mode, check.
And now he had sixty seconds to pop the driver-side door, heave out his six-foot-four, two hundred eighty-pound body, close the door, and turn the key in the lock. If he didn’t make it in time, the siren would go off, and he’d have to pay another goddamn false-alarm fine.
He made it with three seconds to spare.
Grumbling under his breath, he walked to the front door of Jackson’s Famous Ribs, pushed it open, and stepped into a checkroom barely larger than an airlock.
Oh, Lord, it smelled good. He inhaled again—
An alarm in the upper left corner of the chamber beeped. The inner door snapped its lock shut before he could push it open. The sign on the wall cycled through “No Smoking” and “No Scents” to “No Outsizes.”
“What the hell?” he said.
The man who was trying to enter behind him said, “Oh, come on, dude, you’ve seen it before, you know what it means. And like, you’re in our way, kay?”
Ignoring the man, he knocked on the inner door.
Jackson L. Poincare, III—proprietor, chief cook, and bottle-washer—came over. He wiped his hands on his apron and looked embarrassed. Opening the inner door a crack, he said, “Oh, shit, Bill, I am so fuckin’ sorry. Oh, man, this… let’s talk out there, hey?” He gestured to the sidewalk.
Field sighed, and tried to turn around, but the checkroom was small.
“Jesus Christ,” said the man behind him, “you mashed my foot, you fat ox!”
Repressing the urge to respond in kind, Field said, “Sorry. Would you mind letting me out, please?”
“You shoulda known better’n to try to get in the first place.”
Patience gone, Field said, “In that case, you should have known better than to try to follow me in here. Now are you going to let me out, or am I going to have to step on you again?”
“Whale.” The guy shoved him in the back.
“Shrimp.” He shifted his bulk and lifted his foot.
“All right, all right!” The man had fear in his voice. “Come on, we’re out of your way, now you get out of ours.”
Field wheeled slowly about. The man and a woman stood just outside the restaurant. The man held the outer door open; the woman studied the tips of her pumps. They looked health-club-trim and treadmill-fit. He despised them on sight.
When he and Poincare were alone on the sidewalk, he said, “Jesus, Jackson! Why in hell did you install that obscenity?”
“You mean the Outsize Measurer?”
“Yes! Good God, Jackson—”
“Bill, my man, wasn’t my choice. A sister from the Health Department came by yesterday. The new ordinance went into effect. I got to have that Outsize Measurer—hell, she told me I had twenty-four hours to put one in or get shut down.” He shrugged. “This is what I do, man. Can’t afford to close up.”
“But Jesus, Jackson!”
“Hey, it’s the law! I don’t like it no better than you do. And you can still go ’round back for take-out, you know.”
“What, with Jeff and Charlene and the others?”
“Hey.” Poincare shrugged again. “It’s the only option we got, man.”
“You Ajpnt me to risk my health by standing alongside smokers?”
“Bill—” Poincare clasped his shaved head between his hands—“man, I keep telling you, this ain’t my choice. You think I want to do this to my best customer? Shee-yit.”
“C’mon, Jackson, you of all people ought to see that this is discrimination, pure and simple.”
Poincare smiled faintly. “Bill, homey, did you complain when the inspectors made me install decibel-readers at every table?”
“That’s different.”
“Yeah? OK, did you gripe when I had to put in the sniffers to check for perfume, cologne, and body odor?”
“Jackson, you can’t compare—”
“Don’t give me that. I sure can. You know how much business that cost me? Now tell me, Billy my main man, did you bitch when the place went no-smoking?”
“What, are you kidding? That was the smartest thing you ever did.”
Poincare gave a pained smile. “Uh-huh. You know, I didn’t want to do it, but all the non-smokers really loved it. Probably why the Board of Supervisors passed the ordinance. Business fell off, but hey. You liked it.”
“What are you saying?”
Poincare regarded him for a moment before replying. “Nothing, my man. Except that the law’s the law, now. You go 20 percent over ideal weight for your height, the law says you don’t get to come in.”
“Jackson, c’mon, I’ve got a big frame and a slow meta—”
“Bill-iiieee! It ain’t my idea, you get that? And it ain’t my hardware, either. You want to change this shit, you go talk to the supervisor from your district. Trust me, I never would have done it if they hadn’t made me.” He patted Field’s paunch. “You’ve been my meal-ticket a long time, you know?”