by Lee Killough
A whole different idea of late from San Francisco.
“A lot of families do their weekly shopping, farmers and when both parents work days.”
That made sense, and more than one night a week was probably not profitable with a population this size.
He strolled to the front window and stared out at the parked cars and pickups. Lots of pickups, many with stock racks. Parking spaces at the curb and along the tracks on both sides of the street had seemed overkill last night and the day he visited the high school. No longer.
“If you think there’s traffic now,” Violent said, “wait until tomorrow and Saturday night. The teenagers from town and the farms all come downtown and cruise Kansas…driving up one side and back down the other half the night.”
Kids really did that?
It might make tomorrow entertaining, a live American Graffiti. Right now, well rested and wide awake, with no need for more blood, the evening looked good for working on making himself a familiar enough figure to become part of the landscape. The question was finding the place to start?
“Violet, where in town can I play pool?”
Despite having learned the game under the lash of Grandpa Mikaelian’s tongue and the occasional crack of a cue across his knuckles, he enjoyed pool. A few games with locals would introduce him and might make some acquaintances. If he were careful not to win too often or too decisively.
“There are a couple of tables at the bowling alley — it’s east of town on 282 — but I wouldn’t go there. When my women’s league bowls, I see mostly kids and teenagers and they’re always cutting up and trying to push players into finishing their game so they can play. If my husband wasn’t in Hays tonight, I’d have him take you to the VFW. It and the American Legion both have game rooms.”
So, no pool tonight. What about the restaurant on the far side of the street? Garreth pictured himself telling his story to a chatty waitress and other customers. “What’s the Main Street Cafe like?”
“Wonderful,” Violet began, then hesitated. “If you like home-style cooking. Their fried chicken and meatloaf are as good as my mother’s and you can’t beat their homemade pies and sourdough bread. The starter for the bread came west with Verl’s great-great-grandmother in the 1880's. But the Pioneer Grill down the street is where to go for barbeque, Chinese, and Italian food.”
Yes…he thought he caught the whiff of garlic as he headed out of town last night. “Home-style sounds good to me.”
Once in the Main Street, however, he saw no chance to chat up a waitress. They had just one… attractive, about his age, sweaty tendrils of hair escaping from her topknot as she rushed between their eight tables.
No one sat at the counter. He took one of those seats, and waved her off when she glanced his direction. “I’m in no hurry.”
She sent him a grateful smile as she hurried past behind the counter to put up another order and spin the wheel into the kitchen. “I swear I’m going to kill Irene!” she snarled at someone in the kitchen visible only as a male head wearing a white cap. “Of all the nights not to show up!”
“Stand in line,” the head said. “I’m killing her first.”
The waitress turned — Sharon, according to her name tag — and forced a smile. “Can I get you coffee?”
There were more ways than one to become less a stranger. “Since the people at that table are leaving and I see an order going up on the counter, how about getting me one of the tubs you use for dirty dishes and let me clear their table for you. Save you one job.”
She stared at him. “You want to bus the table? Why?”
He gave her a hopefully winning smile. “Because I’m a nice guy with nothing better to do and you’re a maiden in distress.”
She stared a moment longer, then spun away to call into the kitchen, “Verl!” After a whispered conference over the counter with the head, and a hard stare at him by the head, she said, “Come around this way.” and led him into an alcove with a three-shelf cart of plastic tubs and more on a shelf under a counter. “Just bring everything back here and pile up the tubs.”
So he tied the apron she gave him over his t-shirt and jeans and bussed tables, handing Sharon the tips. Then he helped carry orders to tables Sharon pointed out. In passing snatches, he managed to chat her up after all…introducing himself, learning her full name, Sharon Haas; the head’s last name, Hamilton; their hours this evening, until ten-thirty.
“You’re such a sweetie to do this.”
“Well I didn’t want to see you wig out and attack customers with the silverware.”
Which made her laugh.
“I guess people come in to eat when they do their shopping?”
“Yes, some before, some after,” she said. “Verl says Violet Showalter says you’re looking for your grandmother’s family that you didn’t know you had.”
“Yes.” Good going, Violet.
Most of the customers were couples or families, so the single male who came in about seven-thirty immediately caught Garreth’s attention. Attention that sharpened when the man sat at the counter with his back to the counter and stared at Sharon with an intensity that turned his handsome face threatening. And clearly made Sharon uncomfortable.
Verl came out of the kitchen, turning from a head into a stocky man in his fifties. He leaned across the counter toward the starer and in a low voice said, “Wayne, you’re not welcome here.”
Wayne never took his eyes from Sharon, just flexed shoulders that looked built by tossing hay bales. “So throw me out!”
Nearer diners looked around. At a corner table, a man in police uniform, minus gun and gear belt, started to stand.
Garreth had seen him come in earlier with a woman and two boys about eight or nine. Long, lanky…someone easy to picture leading a posse on horseback rather than steering a patrol car. Now Garreth pictured the disruption as the cop tried to strong-arm Wayne out the door, or maybe flatten him over the counter.
Garreth stepped into Wayne’s line of vision and leaned down to stare him in the eyes. Barely above a whisper, he said, “Wayne…leave. Now. Quietly. Don’t…come…back.”
Wayne’s expression went briefly baffled, then blank. He stood and when Garreth moved aside, turned and strode out.
While diners returned to their food and the cop sat back down, Verl stared after Wayne in astonishment. “I’ll be damned. What did you say to him? I couldn’t hear.”
Garreth shrugged. “I politely asked him to leave is all. What’s the story?”
Verl grunted. “Ex-boyfriend of Sharon’s who won’t accept being ex.”
Sharon rushed over to squeeze Garreth’s arm. “Thank you so much! I can’t believe he left that way. He can be mean as a snake.”
Good god, another Vale of Chablis. Though he had dealt with plenty of Wayne’s ilk on domestic disturbance calls in San Francisco, Mayberry here ought to be more peaceful.
The next table he cleared sat next to the cop’s. Whose name tag read Toews.
“Nice going with Hepner,” Toews said. “He’s not usually that cooperative. How’d you manage it?”
“Is everything all right, sir?” Garreth said. “Can we get you anything else? More coffee?”
“Thank you, we’re fine,” the woman said. “I think we’re about ready to leave.”
They did shortly, but Garreth noticed the cop spent longer than seemed necessary at the register paying his bill, and Sharon glanced Garreth’s way a time or two as she counted out change.
Garreth refrained from asking her about the obvious discussion of him. What could she say except give him the story Violet had passed on. He kept working.
A last few patrons straggled in around ten, but all had left by quarter to eleven. Verl locked the door and flipped the sign to Closed. Garreth cleared and wiped the last of the tables while Sharon ran a vacuum under the tables, then he got out the mop and wheeled bucket he had seen in the alcove and started mopping the floor.
“You don’t have to do tha
t,” Sharon said.
Garreth shrugged. “Might as well. You go ahead and count up your tickets or whatever you need to do.”
From the kitchen, Verl said, “You never got a chance to order anything. What would you like before I shut off everything? It’s on the house.”
Garreth shook his head. “I’m fine. I caught a bite in Bellamy and came in here mostly to be around people.”
He finished mopping by going over the kitchen floor, too, with Verl watching him thoughtfully.
As he put away the mop and pail, Verl said, “I can’t thank you enough for jumping to help this way. Or for taking care of Wayne.” He paused. “Would you like a job?” Before Garreth answered he hurried on, “I know you’re not going to be around for long, but I only need someone temporary, until I can replace Irene.”
The good deed rewarded. Garreth pretended to be considering. He estimated another week as the limit he could reasonably drag out the family hunt. After that he needed another excuse for hanging around. A temporary job could always become more if he worked it right. Though working this one night had shown him the job would be boring. “I can use the money. Is it possible to leave at least part of the day free for my family hunt?”
Verl smiled. “That’s no problem. Come in tomorrow at four.”
Sharon looked up and waved — “Thanks again about Wayne.” — as Verl unlocked the front door long enough to let him out.
The street now looked the way it had last night, all the cars and trucks gone except for some in front of a bar in the next block and more farther up at, if he remembered right, the VFW hall.
And a police car parked beside the ZX in front of the hotel, the lanky cop sitting against the car’s trunk, arms folded, cap shoved back on his head.
Uneasiness prickling Garreth. The guy was obviously waiting for him. Why?
He crossed the street warily. “Good evening, Officer.”
“Sergeant, actually, but call me Nat.” He stood and extended a hand. “I never introduced myself earlier. Nathan Toews.” He pronounced it Taves in spite of the spelling on his name tag.
Reluctantly, Garreth shook the offered hand. “Garreth Mikaelian.”
“Sharon told me. You’re hunting family roots, she says. Any luck so far?”
A casual question, but Garreth had started too many field interviews the same way not to regard it with suspicion. What was up? “A little.”
Toews sat back and folded his arms again. “I ran your plates.”
Anger hissed in Garreth. Despite the seeming friendliness, he had another Barney Fife rousting an outsider! He forced a bland expression and voice. “Why?”
Toews shrugged. “It’s hard not to be curious about someone who’s gabbing away with everyone about this search for his ancestors but freezes up the moment I ask a cop to cop kind of question.”
Garreth said nothing. The plates gave Toews only the name and address on the registration. So there had to be more here. He waited for the other shoe to drop.
After pausing, Toews said, “I thought from your address you might be SFPD so I called a friend of a friend out there.”
Thump, there it fell. Now the bozo knew all about him. At least it had not been an official inquiry. “But that hasn’t satisfied your curiosity?” Too late he heard the angry edge on his voice.
Toews raised his brows. “Not that it’s any of my business — that I know of — but I can’t help wondering why you’re here instead of there defending your badge.”
Garreth’s uneasiness sharpened. Had the friend of a friend mentioned the name Bieber in relation to the attack on him? If so, Toews could not fail to connect it to the visit he paid Anna Bieber, word of which had surely gotten around. Even if Toews knew only the basic story of the assault, the morgue, and Harry’s shooting, it made the family search sound incredibly lame as his the sole reason for coming here. And brushing Toews off with yes, it’s none of your business would only arouse more curiosity.
Half a truth might satisfy him. “I’m not sure I want the badge anymore. Would you trust me to back you up? I wouldn’t.”
That seemed to leave Toews at a loss. He regarded Garreth wordlessly for a several moments, then pushed erect, sighing. “I — ” His gaze jumped past Garreth. “Son of a bitch!” He whirled away toward his driver’s door.
“What — ” Garreth began.
Toews jumped in the patrol car. “Wayne Hepner’s truck just turned into the alley behind the Main Street!”
The car screeched into reverse, barely giving Garreth time to jump out of the way, and whipped forward in a tight turn, gunning for the railroad crossing.
Garreth pounded after him.
A woman screamed. Sharon!
He charged into full speed…not caring if Toews saw him passing and swinging into the alley ahead of the patrol car. Though he doubted Toews noticed as his headlights lit up the pickup halfway down the alley, chasing Sharon.
She had the sense to stay close to the wall, where the truck could not run her down without losing the side mirror set out on a wide bracket. Except running offered no escape.
Toews’ light bar flashed on and the siren burped three times.
The pickup only speeded up…and to Garreth’s horror, as it overtook Sharon, Wayne swung open his door. It smashed into Sharon, sending her flying forward and into a skid on the paving. Past her, Wayne braked, jumped out, raced backed to where Sharon lay face down even with his tailgate…hauled her to her feet and with an arm around her neck, began dragging her toward the cab.
She hung limp on his arm, stunned or unconscious. The smell of fresh blood welling from her hands, knees, and chin washed back to Garreth.
Toews swung out of the car, hatless. “Wayne, what do you think you’re doing?” Garreth knew his pulse had to be hammering but Toews sounded only exasperated. “Put Sharon down.”
Wayne’s lips pulled back in a snarl. “Get the fuck out of here, Toews!”
“I can’t do that.” He moved forward even with the headlights. “We’ve got a problem here we need to work out.”
“We don’t have no damn problem.” He continued dragging her backward. “The only fucking problem is between Sharon and me so you butt out! Don’t come any closer unless you want her dead!”
His hand went behind his back. Garreth braced for a gun, but Wayne produced a buck knife he pressed against the side of Sharon’s neck.
Toews sighed. “Oh, shit, Wayne, you don’t want to do that.”
The folksy approach made Garreth revise his initial assessment of Toews from Barney Fife to Andy Taylor. But if Toews had a strategy other trying to talk Wayne into giving up, Garreth did not see it…and what were the chances of that considering his and Sharon’s comments about Wayne’s temperament. Too bad Wayne could not be hypnotized from here. Another approach might work, though.
“I’ll get around behind him,” he whispered to Toews.
Toews frowned. “You don’t need — ”
“It’s all she deserves the way she’s treated me!”
Garreth circled the rear of the patrol car to the far side of the alley. Hunching low, he ran silently along the wall…hunching even lower across the twelve feet between Toews and the pickup.
“How about how you’ve treated her,” came Verl’s angry voice.
Garreth peered over the pickup bed to see the back door of the Main Street open and Verl standing in it with a shotgun.
Wayne shouted, “You point that thing at me and she’s dead, old man!”
“Go back inside, Verl,” Toews said. “Please.”
Garreth reached the pickup cab…saw the lock button down on the passenger door. Shit. Well, what were the chances of opening the door without being heard anyway.
Garreth gritted his teeth in anticipation of pain and leaned into the door…
Wrench!
…and knelt doubled on the seat with jaw clenched, holding his breath to prevent any groan giving away his presence.
Outside, Sharon’s whimpe
r indicated she had regained consciousness. Garreth pictured her eyes wide with fear.
Wayne snarled, “Both of you get the fuck out of here before I count to ten or I’m cutting this bitch’s throat!”
Sharon squeaked in terror.
“Ten, nine…”
“Wayne, be sensible, amigo. You know your mother wouldn’t approve of this.”
“Leave my mother out of this! Eight!”
They sounded almost to the door. There was no time for pain to fade. When Wayne reached the door, he would have his back to it for a second or two at most, before turning to push Sharon inside. Garreth forced himself to move, sliding forward behind the steering wheel to the edge of the seat.
“Seven…” Wayne backed up to the door. “Six…”
Now!
Garreth reached out…knocked off Wayne’s ball cap with one hand to grab his hair, and wrapped the other hand around Wayne’s knife hand. He wrenched the knife hand sideways away from Sharon’s neck, feeling bones crack in his grip. Unconsciousness cut off Wayne’s scream as Garreth slammed his head sideways into the door frame.
Wayne’s knees buckled. Garreth leaped from the cab, pushing Wayne clear of where he dropped Sharon…at the same time plucking the knife from the crushed hand and jamming the blade down between the glass and frame of the driver’s door.
Then he stepped over the sprawling Wayne and scooped up Sharon. “Okay, it’s over. You’re safe.”
She buried her head against him, bursting into tears.
The smell of the blood enveloped him, setting fire to Garreth’s throat. It smelled so sweet, and he longed to know how it tasted. With her bleeding chin so close to his mouth, he fought not to lick the wound.
Toews and Verl reached them seconds later.
“It looks like Wayne hit his head and knocked himself out,” Garreth said. “Do we call an ambulance or just throw him in the back of the truck to transport him?”
“I vote for the truck,” Verl said.
Toews smiled but lifted his radio off his belt and thumbed the mike. “Three Baumen. Doris, we need the ambulance behind Wolffe’s Jewelry for a prisoner going to the ER. Just to avoid any police brutality nonsense,” he said to them. “I’ll wait here for it. Verl, you and Mikaelian take Sharon in.”
