The rubber tip of Carver’s cane didn’t grip the slick linoleum, so he hooked its crook over the back of the chair next to him. The linoleum was gray with a kind of lighter gray cloud pattern on it, buckled in places. It creaked and made a sticky suction sound beneath the shoes of the short, dumpy young blond girl who’d been standing behind the counter and was now waddling toward them carrying two glasses of water. A couple of menus were tucked between her fleshy right arm and her ample chest. She was wearing cut-off jeans, and a white T-shirt that was lettered WHIFFY’S in black across the chest, above what looked like an ironed-on bat and baseball half hidden by the sag of her breasts.
She had a round, kind face, a nice smile except for bad teeth. She placed the glasses and menus on the table. “Hi, I’m Marlene. Getcha somethin’ to drink?” Bwip-bwip-zoing! went the video game, much louder.
Carver said, “Budweiser if you got it.”
“We got it. This ain’t that far off the beaten path.”
“Just water for me,” Beth said.
Marlene went back behind the counter to get the beer while Carver and Beth studied the handwritten menus. One of the men at the near end of the counter turned and stared openly at Carver, then at Beth. He was fat and wore bib overalls and no shirt. Thick-soled brown leather boots. His sandy-colored hair was chopped so short he looked almost bald. There was a roll of flesh at the back of his sunburned neck. His eyes were sunk deep in pads of flesh and glared out at the world like the tiny, primitive eyes of pigs irritated on a hot day.
The man on the stool next to him was wearing jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, like the guy at the video machine, only his shirt was white. He was tall, lean, and long-muscled. Tendons in his forearms rippled as he forked in a mouthful of beans. He didn’t look in Carver’s direction, just kept eating, chewing with his mouth open.
Marlene returned and Carver ordered the chicken-fried steak special. Beth asked for a hamburger and home fries.
When Marlene had gone, Beth said, “That fat creep at the counter keeps staring at me.”
Carver poured beer in his glass, watched it foam, then looked to the side. “Not now, he’s not. He’s concentrating on his cornbread.”
“Well, he doesn’t look like he could concentrate on more’n one thing at a time. Wait’ll he swallows, he’ll look back over here.”
“Probably’d like to ask you for a date.”
“Fuck you, Carver.”
“Such spirit.”
She sipped her ice water daintily, little finger extended. Mouth didn’t match manners. “Listen, Carver, what do you think this McGregor character can really do to catch Roberto?”
“Whatever needs doing. He’ll see that the Del Moray marina and any likely landing sites along the coast’ll be watched like a clock at quitting time. He’ll take part in it himself, sleep in his car if he has to. The man’s fucked up. Wants to be mayor.”
Beth smiled. “You notice everybody wants to be what they’re not?”
Carver sampled his beer. Good and cold. “You’re no exception.”
“Yeah, I know. What about you?”
He set the glass down in its puddle of condensation on the smooth table. The video game bwipped and zoinged some more. “During the last couple years, I got divorced, got shot, lost a son, and got involved with a woman too much like me. What with my leg, the way my life took a turn, I approach things a day at a time.”
“Like a recovering addict.”
“Something like.”
“What woman you involved with, Carver?” She was tactful enough not to ask about his son.
“Private matter,” he said. “Anyway, it’s not going good for us right now.” Bwip! Zoing!
“I figured.”
He didn’t ask her how. It was better to leave Edwina out of anything that went on between them. He didn’t like the way Edwina was changing in his mind, leaving him helpless and lonely, with terrifying moments when he could feel time flowing around him and carrying him like the current of a great river.
Beth said, “You got a lotta faith in your friend McGregor.”
“He’s not my friend. Not anybody’s. That’s the way he likes it, so he can sacrifice anyone he wants in whatever game he’s playing.”
“Sounds like a total jerk.”
“He is. But he’s good at what he does. He’ll haunt the Del Moray coast like the Ancient Mariner.”
“Well, he better stoppeth more’n one in three if he’s gonna get the goods on Roberto.”
The fat man at the counter said, “Marlene, put on some music, why doncha, so we don’t have to listen to that goddam video machine fartin’ at us.”
“ ’Kay, Junior.” Marlene pushed through some swinging doors. Speakers mounted up near the ceiling crackled to life. Dolly Parton started singing about a party right next door. The man at the video machine hadn’t turned around. He was still trying to influence microchips with body English.
A red light flashed on the video screen and an electronic voice yelled “Score!” above the sound of Dolly’s. Fat Junior said, “Jesus H. Christ, I hate them ’puters!”
Marlene was back behind the counter, carrying plates on a tray out in front of her with both hands. She said. “That ain’t no computer.”
“Same fuckin’ difference, ain’t it?”
Marlene ignored his question and moved out from behind the counter. Squish-squished across the buckled linoleum and placed the plates of steaming food in front of Carver and Beth. Carver was surprised; everything looked delicious.
“Getcha anything else, jus’ lemme know,” Marlene said, and turned and walked away. Her legs were thick and brown beneath her cut-off jeans. Muscular rather than fat. A tightness moved in Carver’s groin and he averted his eyes. The waitress was a backwater kid, no more than seventeen.
“Don’t you be eyeballin’ Marlene,” Junior said. “You got your black meat there.”
Carver thought, This is gonna be trouble. A part of him had sensed it coming for a while. Something in his gut got hard and cold, and ready. He ignored Junior. Took a bite of chicken-fried steak, Chewed.
Beth was staring at him. “You catch what that asshole said?” she whispered.
“Eat your hamburger.”
“Didn’t hear me, I guess,” Junior said. “Ain’t got goddam ears maybe, you think, B.J.?”
B.J., the thin one, took another bite of beans. “Leave the man alone, Junior. He likes niggers, that’s his business. He’s a cripple. Maybe dark’ns is all he can bed.”
Junior tilted back his tiny head on his thick neck and took a long pull of beer. “Well, I don’t think that’s it. I think he’s bein’ bad-mannered, is what.”
Marlene had shrunk back against the wall near the grill. The old man at the far end of the counter was staring into his coffee cup. The skinny guy at the video machine pocketed a handful of change and loped leisurely from the restaurant. He wore rimless glasses and had greasy black hair that curled down over his forehead. He didn’t look scared. Didn’t look anything. It was time for him to leave, that was all.
Junior swiveled on his stool to face Carver directly. “Black section of town’s down t’other end of the street. Got a restaurant there serves scum like you.”
Carver said, “But it’s not in the Michelin guide like this one.”
Junior looked at B.J. “The fuck’s he talkin’ about tires for?”
B.J. shrugged and said, “Don’t know, little bro.”
Junior flexed his jaw muscles. “We don’t mix the races in this part of the country, mister.”
“Don’t you really?”
“You and the nigger bitch head for the door,” Junior said, “or you’re gonna find out for sure we don’t.”