chapter 8

word count 638


"I'm Adam. Yeah, I've seen you around."

"So when does this place open?" Elliot nodded toward the Dairy Queen, hands in his pockets, looking nonchalant.

"About fifteen minutes."

"Mind if I wait?"

"Sure, no problem." Adam looked the other way.

Elliot plopped next to him without speaking. In stolen glances, he attempted to size up the other boy. Pale, thin, he had that lost look about him. A vibe emanated from the kid, screaming to the world there was no place he could go and nothing he could do--an unsettled energy of near-panic, loneliness. The world was deaf to the call. But Elliot heard. It was a pain they shared.

Adam looked over and their eyes met. Understanding was born. They sat in silence for a while, before Adam finally spoke. "Do you like New Albany Elementary?"

"Shit, no! Those kids are ass holes, man!"

"Yeah."

"You hate it, too, then?"

Adam scowled. "Hell, yeah! I'm only there because my dad works on the east side and he wants me to go where he is. But I hate it."

"So where you from?"

"West side."

Elliot nodded. "Hey, look! Lights on in the DQ! Finally!"

"Well, enjoy. I'm just using this place to sit. I never eat there."

"What? Like you live at this table? Come on in!"

Adam thought about it. "I heard they have good hot dogs."

"They have excellent hot dogs. You'll see."

***

Mrs. John Hunt, otherwise known as Trudy, touched up her lipstick, applying the brilliant crimson with a hand that trembled just a little. She patted her bangs and made sure the hair net was still on snug. Next the waitress straightened her name tag, and then finished it all by reaching into her purse to make sure the cap on her flask of whiskey was screwed on tight. It was a dainty little item, the flask, with a brown paisley design. She'd picked at an artsy crafty shop years ago. It was pretty and fun, made the liquor seem innocent, like soda pop. She chuckled at her own humor. Then, closing the handbag, she shoved it in her locker.

Out in the restaurant it was Saturday and busy. Lots of shoppers downtown now clogged the doorway looking for tables. She shot a forced smile to the other waitress, Mary, and got to work. Music emanating from the table side jukeboxes was a deafening roar today, songs mixing together in a discordant chorus of rock, blues, and folk. The raucous chatter of a filled diner rolled through like tidal waves, up and down, all punctuated by the clatter of plates, the clang of glasses, or the occasional ring of the register. A warm, hazy sun poured in the windows, overheating the joint, expanding and ballooning the racket to a higher decibel.

There, amidst the noise and confusion, her eyes rested on a familiar face. Everything else faded to black and only those steel blue eyes remained, hardened eyes, masculine, tough, rough. She rushed to the end of the counter where he sat.

"Well, Officer Miller, what brings you in on a Saturday?" She poured the big man a cup of steaming brown coffee. Her eyes twinkled with fun.

The cop looked back, his face as rigid as ever, his eyes scanning her up and down, to finally settle on a show of breast her opened top button revealed. "Well," he murmured. "I just happen to have some special business in town today." He gulped some coffee and looked at her in a steady gaze.

She blushed and giggled. "And would that business be with a lady named Trudy Hunt?"

He worked his hand across the counter in slow motion seeking hers, careful so no one would notice. He cupped their hands together and said, "Yes, it certainly is."