of the Slug is open down the street. They got a couple of tables.”
“And breakfast?”
“Only thing open this end of town is H.P.’s , a block off Cypress, down from the Slug. But it’s a local’s joint.”
“Is there a problem getting served?”
“No. The menu might throw you for a bit. It—well, you’ll see.”
Travis thanked the mechanic and started off in the direction of H.P.’s , the demon skulking along behind him. As they passed the self-serve car-wash stalls, Travis noticed a tall man of about thirty unloading plastic laundry baskets full of dirty dishes from the bed of an old Ford pickup. He seemed to be having trouble getting quarters to go into the coin box.
Looking at him, Travis said: “You know, Catch, I’ll bet there’s a lot of incest in this town.”
“Probably the only entertainment,” the demon agreed.
The man in the car wash had activated the high-pressure nozzle and was sweeping it back and forth across the baskets of dishes. With each sweep he repeated, “Nobody lives like this. Nobody.”
Some of the overspray caught on the wind and settled over Travis and Catch. For a moment the demon became visible in the spray. “I’m melt- ing ,” Catch whined in perfect Wicked Witch of the West pitch.
“Let’s go,” Travis said, moving quickly to avoid more spray. “We need a hundred bucks before noon.”
JENNY
In the two hours since Jenny Masterson had arrived at the cafe she had managed to drop a tray full of glasses, mix up the orders on three tables, fill the saltshakers with sugar and the sugar dispensers with salt, and pour hot coffee on the hands of two customers who had covered their cups to indicate that they’d had enough—a patently stupid gesture on their part, she thought. The worst of it was not that she normally performed her duties flawlessly, which she did. The worst of it was that everyone was so damned understanding about it.
“You’re going through a rough time, honey, it’s okay.”
“Divorce is always hard.”
Their consolations ranged from “too bad you couldn’t work it out” to “he was a worthless drunk anyway, you’re better off without him.”
She’d been separated from Robert exactly four days and everybody in Pine Cove knew about it. And they couldn’t just let it lie. Why didn’t they let her go through the process without running this cloying gauntlet of sympathy? It was as if she had a big red D sewed to her clothing, a signal to the townsfolk to close around her like a hungry amoeba.
When the second tray of glasses hit the floor, she stood amid the shards trying to catch her breath and could not. She had to do something—scream, cry, pass out—but she just stood there, paralyzed, while the busboy cleaned up the glass.
Two bony hands closed on her shoulders. She heard a voice in her ear that seemed to come from very far away. “You are having an anxiety attack, dear. It shall pass. Relax and breathe deeply.” She felt the hands gently leading her through the kitchen door to the office in the back.
“Sit down and put your head between your knees.” She let herself be guided into a chair. Her mind went white, and her breath caught in her throat. A bony hand rubbed her back.
“Breathe, Jennifer. I’ll not have you shuffling off this mortal coil in the middle of the breakfast shift.”
In a moment her head cleared and she looked up to see Howard Phillips, the owner of H.P.’s , standing over her.
He was a tall, skeletal man, who always wore a black suit and button shoes that had been fashionable a hundred years ago. Except for the dark depressions on his cheeks, Howard’s skin was as white as a carrion worm. Robert had once said that H.P. looked like the master of ceremonies at a chemotherapy funfest.
Howard had been born and raised in
Maine
, yet when he spoke, he affected the accent of an erudite Londoner. “The prospect of change is a many-fanged beast, my dear. It is not, however, appropriate to pay fearful
“And breakfast?”
“Only thing open this end of town is H.P.’s , a block off Cypress, down from the Slug. But it’s a local’s joint.”
“Is there a problem getting served?”
“No. The menu might throw you for a bit. It—well, you’ll see.”
Travis thanked the mechanic and started off in the direction of H.P.’s , the demon skulking along behind him. As they passed the self-serve car-wash stalls, Travis noticed a tall man of about thirty unloading plastic laundry baskets full of dirty dishes from the bed of an old Ford pickup. He seemed to be having trouble getting quarters to go into the coin box.
Looking at him, Travis said: “You know, Catch, I’ll bet there’s a lot of incest in this town.”
“Probably the only entertainment,” the demon agreed.
The man in the car wash had activated the high-pressure nozzle and was sweeping it back and forth across the baskets of dishes. With each sweep he repeated, “Nobody lives like this. Nobody.”
Some of the overspray caught on the wind and settled over Travis and Catch. For a moment the demon became visible in the spray. “I’m melt- ing ,” Catch whined in perfect Wicked Witch of the West pitch.
“Let’s go,” Travis said, moving quickly to avoid more spray. “We need a hundred bucks before noon.”
JENNY
In the two hours since Jenny Masterson had arrived at the cafe she had managed to drop a tray full of glasses, mix up the orders on three tables, fill the saltshakers with sugar and the sugar dispensers with salt, and pour hot coffee on the hands of two customers who had covered their cups to indicate that they’d had enough—a patently stupid gesture on their part, she thought. The worst of it was not that she normally performed her duties flawlessly, which she did. The worst of it was that everyone was so damned understanding about it.
“You’re going through a rough time, honey, it’s okay.”
“Divorce is always hard.”
Their consolations ranged from “too bad you couldn’t work it out” to “he was a worthless drunk anyway, you’re better off without him.”
She’d been separated from Robert exactly four days and everybody in Pine Cove knew about it. And they couldn’t just let it lie. Why didn’t they let her go through the process without running this cloying gauntlet of sympathy? It was as if she had a big red D sewed to her clothing, a signal to the townsfolk to close around her like a hungry amoeba.
When the second tray of glasses hit the floor, she stood amid the shards trying to catch her breath and could not. She had to do something—scream, cry, pass out—but she just stood there, paralyzed, while the busboy cleaned up the glass.
Two bony hands closed on her shoulders. She heard a voice in her ear that seemed to come from very far away. “You are having an anxiety attack, dear. It shall pass. Relax and breathe deeply.” She felt the hands gently leading her through the kitchen door to the office in the back.
“Sit down and put your head between your knees.” She let herself be guided into a chair. Her mind went white, and her breath caught in her throat. A bony hand rubbed her back.
“Breathe, Jennifer. I’ll not have you shuffling off this mortal coil in the middle of the breakfast shift.”
In a moment her head cleared and she looked up to see Howard Phillips, the owner of H.P.’s , standing over her.
He was a tall, skeletal man, who always wore a black suit and button shoes that had been fashionable a hundred years ago. Except for the dark depressions on his cheeks, Howard’s skin was as white as a carrion worm. Robert had once said that H.P. looked like the master of ceremonies at a chemotherapy funfest.
Howard had been born and raised in
Maine
, yet when he spoke, he affected the accent of an erudite Londoner. “The prospect of change is a many-fanged beast, my dear. It is not, however, appropriate to pay fearful
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