“You’re a worrywart, you know that?” Hickok declared. “This place is called Ma’s Diner. What harm can a little old lady do to four Warriors, for cryin’ out loud?” He snickered at the notion.
“For once I agree with Hickok,” Geronimo said. “They wouldn’t bother to advertise if they weren’t serious about attracting customers.”
“I hope you’re right,” Blade stated.
“Quit your worryin’, pard,” Hickok advised. “What could go wrong?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Looks innocent enough to me,” Hickok mentioned.
Blade kept his foot on the brake, still uncertain of the wisdom of stopping. The SEAL was idling on Highway 93 approximately 400 yards south of Contact. The town had appeared to be deserted, although several of the buildings had exhibited evidence of recent habitation; the doors and windows on three of the homes had been intact and clean, and one of the yards had sported a flower garden.
“What are we waitin’ for?” Hickok queried impatiently.
Blade sighed. To their right was a gravel drive leading to a newly painted white structure. MA’s DINER was painted in bold black letters on a wooden sign perched over the front entrance. Four vehicles were parked outside, prewar-model cars in surprisingly fine condition. “One of us must stay in the SEAL with the doors locked,” he mentioned.
“I’ll do it,” Geronimo volunteered.
Blade took a right, slowly approaching the diner, thankful the SEAL’s tinted plastic body enabled him to see out but prevented anyone from viewing the interior. If hostile eyes were peeking from the diner windows, they would be unable to ascertain how many were in the transport. He pulled into a parking spot between a vintage Ford on the left and a Chevy on the right, then turned off the engine.
“Are we takin’ the long guns?” Hickok queried.
“Of course,” Blade responded. “It doesn’t pay to get too overconfident.”
Hickok glanced at Geronimo. “How about passin’ them up here, pard?”
Geronimo turned in his seat. On top of the pile of provisions in the rear section were four different firearms. One was a Navy Arms Henry Carbine in 44-40 caliber, Hickok’s favorite rifle. Next to the Henry was Blade’s machine gun, a Commando Arms Carbine, a fully automatic 45-caliber firearm with a 90-shot magazine. Also on the pile was Helen’s weapon, an Armalite AR-180A Sporter Carbine. Geronimo handed each of the guns to the proper party, then took hold of his Browning BAR. All of the firearms the Warriors used came from the enormous armory the Founder had stocked in one of the concrete blocks at the Home.
“Keep the doors locked,” Blade reiterated as he took hold of his door handle.
“I will,” Geronimo promised. “What if you do run into trouble in there? If I hear gunfire, should I come on the run?”
“You don’t budge from the SEAL no matter what,” Blade directed. “The transport might be virtually impervious, but I’m not taking any chances.
You stay here and guard the SEAL.”
“Okay,” Geronimo said reluctantly. “If I see anything suspicious while you’re inside, I’ll sound the horn.”
“Good idea,” Blade stated. He looked at Hickok and Helen. “Are you two ready?”
“I was born ready,” Hickok declared.
Helen simply nodded.
Blade opened the door. “I’m leaving the keys in the ignition,” he informed Geronimo. “If something does happen to us, you can drive off.”
“I’m not going anywhere without you,” Geronimo said.
Blade jumped out, waited for Helen to join him, then slammed the door.
Hickok closed his door and ambled around the front of the SEAL. “Do you smell what I smell?” he asked them.
The mouth-watering aroma of cooking food filled the dusty air.
“Smells like steak,” Helen commented.
“We’d best be on our guard,” Hickok said sarcastically. “These hombres could be fryin’ a steak just to trick us, to lure us into their trap!” He chuckled.
“Keep it up,” Blade admonished, and led the way up to the front entrance.
“I hear music,” Helen said.
Blade heard it too. A man singing in a wailing, heart-wrenching style.
He caught a few of the lyrics.
“…your cheatin’ heart…”
Blade grabbed the doorknob and pulled the brown wooden door wide open, then swiftly stepped inside, to the right of the doorway, flattening his broad back against the wall and leveling the Commando.
“Howdy, stranger!” a woman called out. “Welcome to Ma’s!”
Blade surveyed the diner. On the opposite side of the room was a counter running the length of the one-story building. Behind the yellow counter were two people, an elderly matron with gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a jowly jaw, and a tall man with black hair and a toothpick in his mouth. Both of them wore white clothes, including an apron. There were ten tables in the diner. At a table to the right sat three men dressed in ragged jeans and flannel shirts, cups of coffee before them. And at another table to the left of the door was a short, obese man in a grimy blue suit and a woman with bright red lipstick coating her thick lips and too much rouge on her cheeks. She was wearing a red dress.
None of them appeared to be armed.
“Howdy!” the matron repeated. “Come on in! Ain’t no one here going to bite you!” She smiled in a friendly, sincere fashion.
Hickok walked through the door as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
He took a look around and grinned. “Yep. Definitely a trap.”
“You won’t need that hardware, son,” the matron said, nodding at Blade’s Commando. “Our muffins don’t usually fight back.”
Hickok laughed.
Blade slowly lowered the Commando and advanced toward the counter.
The men on the right and the couple on the left watched him for a moment, then suddenly shifted their attention to the doorway. Blade looked back.
Helen had just entered the diner, her Carbine cradled in her arms. She scanned the room and followed Blade.
“Howdy,” Hickok said, grinning at the couple to the left. “How’s the food here?”
“Delicious,” the woman answered. “Try the steak. I recommend it highly.”
“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do,” Hickok said, stepping toward the counter.
Blade moved to within four feet of the matron. “Hello. We could use a bite to eat.”
The matron beamed. “That’s what I’m here for. They don’t call me Ma for nothing. Tasty food and service with a smile. That’s what everyone gets at my place.”
Blade angled his body so he could keep an eye on the three men and the couple. “How long has your place been open?”
“Oh, about four years,” Ma said. “Give or take a month.”
“You get much business here?” Blade casually inquired.
“Enough,” Ma replied. “We don’t see much traffic heading north, but we do see a lot going toward Vegas. They’re the bulk of my trade.”
Hickok reached the counter and rested the Henry on top. “Howdy, Ma. Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Why, thank you, sonny,” Ma responded. “You sure are polite. What’s your name?”
“The handle is Hickok,” the gunman stated.
“And the big one?” Ma queried.
“That’s Blade,” Hickok said. “Don’t mind him. His middle name is paranoia.”
“And your beautiful companion?” Ma asked.
“My name is Helen,” Helen said, answering for herself.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re pretty enough to be a Vegas chorus girl,” Ma mentioned appreciatively.
“What’s a chorus girl?” Hickok questioned.
Ma stared at the gunman. “You mean to say you don’t know what a chorus girl is? Where are you from? The moon?”
“Nope,” Hickok replied.