I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“Keep moving. What I said: if I send you a mayday, you go kill whoever you’re closest to.”
“Right.”
“But keep moving, so they’ll never know where you are.”
“OK.”
“And if I don’t answer a check-in call, that means I’m probably dead. You keep trying me for twenty minutes — then you start
killing.”
“Starting with which one?”
“Doesn’t matter. So long as
you
know which one.”
“Start with Nell?”
“Whatever you want. Just make a plan, get it in your head. Make it concrete. You’ve got to believe it so they’ll believe it.”
“OK.”
“You understand?”
“I think.”
“If it’s true for you, it’ll be true for them.”
“Right,” said Romeo.
Romeo, after that call, felt a dead ache in his stomach. It wasn’t hunger but still he thought he better eat something. He went
over to I-95 and found a Huddle House. The bounteous light was repellent to him, but nothing else was open, so he went in
and took a booth. The menu was so shiny he could hardly bear to look at it. He felt conspicuous and awkward. The waitress
hovered. Though he knew perfectly well what grits were, he thought she was expecting to be asked, so he said, “Could you tell
me something about grits?”
The waitress shrugged. “They’re white.”
He approved of this opacity: he thought it fitting. The hour, this job, this hash joint half-full of drunks, toads, and marginal
grifters: why in the world should she open up to anyone? He ordered the grits plus scrambled eggs and bacon, and she went
away. Then the woman in the next booth turned, and sized him up, and said, “Grits is nothing. It’s what you put your butter
on. You makin a big thing about grits, you
must
be a Yankee.”
He said, “I am.”
“Knew it.”
She turned to the gnarled cracker who shared her booth. She gave him a look like,
what did I tell you
, and he conceded, “You called it, Wynetta.”
She turned back to Romeo. “I’m Wynetta. This is Lonnie.”
“OK. I’m Romeo.”
Naturally Lonnie thought that was funny. His laugh was petty, jagged. Wynetta killed it with a sharp look, and asked Romeo
what he thought about the trial of Miss Glynn County. Was that a travesty or what? Romeo said he didn’t know anything about
the trial of Miss Glynn County. Wynetta showed him the picture in the
Brunswick News
and laid the whole thing out for him: the cheating, the recriminations, the secret baby, the missing bullet.
Presently Lonnie got tired of being ignored. He paid for his coffee and took off, and Wynetta came to sit in Romeo’s booth.
She was large. She had thinning hair and a mail slot for a mouth, and there was nothing sexy about her unless you weren’t
looking, and even then you smelled her breath which was a bouquet of onions, slim jims and gin. When Romeo’s breakfast arrived,
he couldn’t begin to eat it. But he probably wouldn’t have eaten it anyway, and he was glad for the company, glad that Wynetta
was talking a blue streak. It distracted him from his obligations.
After a few minutes the waitress came by again and noticed his untouched plate. “You don’t like the grits?”
“Oh, no, they’re fine, I just can’t eat right now. Could you maybe just bring me the check?”
She muttered, “You don’t pay if you don’t eat,” and swept the plate away. She was vexed, but there was nothing he could see
to do about this.
Wynetta had lost the thread of her chatter. For a moment she and Romeo were quiet, looking into each other’s eyes. Then it
occurred to her to ask, “So what’re you doing down here?”
That was a tough one. Shaw had told him something to say to this but he couldn’t remember. He tried, “Well. I’m with my buddy.”
“Yeah?”
She waited.
“And, um, we’re in business. My buddy and me.”
“What business?”
“Well, like insurance.”
She said, “I used to sell insurance. Who you work
“Keep moving. What I said: if I send you a mayday, you go kill whoever you’re closest to.”
“Right.”
“But keep moving, so they’ll never know where you are.”
“OK.”
“And if I don’t answer a check-in call, that means I’m probably dead. You keep trying me for twenty minutes — then you start
killing.”
“Starting with which one?”
“Doesn’t matter. So long as
you
know which one.”
“Start with Nell?”
“Whatever you want. Just make a plan, get it in your head. Make it concrete. You’ve got to believe it so they’ll believe it.”
“OK.”
“You understand?”
“I think.”
“If it’s true for you, it’ll be true for them.”
“Right,” said Romeo.
Romeo, after that call, felt a dead ache in his stomach. It wasn’t hunger but still he thought he better eat something. He went
over to I-95 and found a Huddle House. The bounteous light was repellent to him, but nothing else was open, so he went in
and took a booth. The menu was so shiny he could hardly bear to look at it. He felt conspicuous and awkward. The waitress
hovered. Though he knew perfectly well what grits were, he thought she was expecting to be asked, so he said, “Could you tell
me something about grits?”
The waitress shrugged. “They’re white.”
He approved of this opacity: he thought it fitting. The hour, this job, this hash joint half-full of drunks, toads, and marginal
grifters: why in the world should she open up to anyone? He ordered the grits plus scrambled eggs and bacon, and she went
away. Then the woman in the next booth turned, and sized him up, and said, “Grits is nothing. It’s what you put your butter
on. You makin a big thing about grits, you
must
be a Yankee.”
He said, “I am.”
“Knew it.”
She turned to the gnarled cracker who shared her booth. She gave him a look like,
what did I tell you
, and he conceded, “You called it, Wynetta.”
She turned back to Romeo. “I’m Wynetta. This is Lonnie.”
“OK. I’m Romeo.”
Naturally Lonnie thought that was funny. His laugh was petty, jagged. Wynetta killed it with a sharp look, and asked Romeo
what he thought about the trial of Miss Glynn County. Was that a travesty or what? Romeo said he didn’t know anything about
the trial of Miss Glynn County. Wynetta showed him the picture in the
Brunswick News
and laid the whole thing out for him: the cheating, the recriminations, the secret baby, the missing bullet.
Presently Lonnie got tired of being ignored. He paid for his coffee and took off, and Wynetta came to sit in Romeo’s booth.
She was large. She had thinning hair and a mail slot for a mouth, and there was nothing sexy about her unless you weren’t
looking, and even then you smelled her breath which was a bouquet of onions, slim jims and gin. When Romeo’s breakfast arrived,
he couldn’t begin to eat it. But he probably wouldn’t have eaten it anyway, and he was glad for the company, glad that Wynetta
was talking a blue streak. It distracted him from his obligations.
After a few minutes the waitress came by again and noticed his untouched plate. “You don’t like the grits?”
“Oh, no, they’re fine, I just can’t eat right now. Could you maybe just bring me the check?”
She muttered, “You don’t pay if you don’t eat,” and swept the plate away. She was vexed, but there was nothing he could see
to do about this.
Wynetta had lost the thread of her chatter. For a moment she and Romeo were quiet, looking into each other’s eyes. Then it
occurred to her to ask, “So what’re you doing down here?”
That was a tough one. Shaw had told him something to say to this but he couldn’t remember. He tried, “Well. I’m with my buddy.”
“Yeah?”
She waited.
“And, um, we’re in business. My buddy and me.”
“What business?”
“Well, like insurance.”
She said, “I used to sell insurance. Who you work
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