make nice, even though Roscoe was more than just a little out of her depth and she knew it. That fact was obvious to the least sophisticated observer. But Kim would never have made such an admission in Roscoe’s shoes. Or any other shoes.
“It’s going to rain,” Roscoe said, and walked away.
“She’ll call us,” Gaspar said. “Right after she checks us out with Atlanta.”
“That’s what I would do,” Kim said. “Wouldn’t you?”
Gaspar grinned. “Of course I would.”
Kim’s stomach growled. “Good thing Asian women don’t weigh much. If I don’t get real food pretty soon, you may have to carry me when I faint.”
“Then we’d better hurry. We Cubans are not that chivalrous,” he said, as fat raindrops started to fall.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A solid wall of rain overwhelmed the Blazer all the way down the country road. Gaspar turned the wipers to their fastest speed, but they didn’t do much. Headlights on bright showed nothing but a curtain of water dead ahead.
“There,” Kim said, pointing at a dull gleam of aluminum. A sun-faded sign out front of the place said Eno’s Diner in letters the size of garbage cans.
“Got it, boss.” She saw exhaustion around his eyes and pain in the lines that etched his face. He pulled the Blazer into the lot. The only other vehicle was a green Saturn. He drove as close to the door as he could get and turned the engine off. They sat for a moment listening to the rain hammering on the roof.
Then they ran. She got there first. Was he still limping? She wrenched the door open, and they fell inside and back in time about sixty years.
Eno’s Diner resembled a converted railroad car. Retro. Like American Graffiti. There should have been table-side jukeboxes in the booths loaded with Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis records. Maybe Ray Charles singing Georgia, or even that sad old dude, Blind Blake, considering the location.
The place was narrow, with a long counter on one side, and booths lining the opposite wall, and a kitchen off the back. The doorway was in the center where one of the booths had been removed. A small sign posted at the cash register immediately ahead said, “Please be seated.” The entrance aisle formed a T intersection from the front door and required a right or left turn to choose a table. Gaspar turned right, walked fifteen feet on checkerboard black and white tile and chose a booth. He sat down hard on the red vinyl upholstered bench, facing the door. Predictable.
Kim headed straight for the restroom, feeling her shoes squeak as each step pressed water through the soles. Noxious fumes from a pine scented air freshener assaulted her when she pushed the door open. She flipped on the harsh overhead florescent and a roaring fan started up. She performed her tasks briskly while forcing herself to ignore the rust stains and broken toilet seat. She pulled a bit of toilet paper to protect her fingers when she flushed and held the handle down, as the note taped to the tank instructed.
Then she checked her reflection in the cracked mirror over the sink. “You’re hopeless,” she told the face. “Be careful or you’ll scare small children.” She pressed the water out of her hair with her hands and washed without touching the nasty soap cake and refused to use the wrinkled pull-down cloth towel hanging from its dispenser near the door. She shook her hands by her sides to dry them as best she could, and then drew her fingers up inside her sleeve and pulled the door open to escape.
She slid onto the bench opposite Gaspar. He was full-on focused watching the diner, the parking lot, everything, like a predatory bird. God, she was tired. What she wouldn’t give for eight hours solid sleep. She’d be a new woman. But food first. She pulled napkins from a chrome holder and used them to dry her hands and pat the rain off her face. There was a two-foot round mirror on the opposite wall. It gave her a decent view of the room behind her. By
“It’s going to rain,” Roscoe said, and walked away.
“She’ll call us,” Gaspar said. “Right after she checks us out with Atlanta.”
“That’s what I would do,” Kim said. “Wouldn’t you?”
Gaspar grinned. “Of course I would.”
Kim’s stomach growled. “Good thing Asian women don’t weigh much. If I don’t get real food pretty soon, you may have to carry me when I faint.”
“Then we’d better hurry. We Cubans are not that chivalrous,” he said, as fat raindrops started to fall.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A solid wall of rain overwhelmed the Blazer all the way down the country road. Gaspar turned the wipers to their fastest speed, but they didn’t do much. Headlights on bright showed nothing but a curtain of water dead ahead.
“There,” Kim said, pointing at a dull gleam of aluminum. A sun-faded sign out front of the place said Eno’s Diner in letters the size of garbage cans.
“Got it, boss.” She saw exhaustion around his eyes and pain in the lines that etched his face. He pulled the Blazer into the lot. The only other vehicle was a green Saturn. He drove as close to the door as he could get and turned the engine off. They sat for a moment listening to the rain hammering on the roof.
Then they ran. She got there first. Was he still limping? She wrenched the door open, and they fell inside and back in time about sixty years.
Eno’s Diner resembled a converted railroad car. Retro. Like American Graffiti. There should have been table-side jukeboxes in the booths loaded with Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis records. Maybe Ray Charles singing Georgia, or even that sad old dude, Blind Blake, considering the location.
The place was narrow, with a long counter on one side, and booths lining the opposite wall, and a kitchen off the back. The doorway was in the center where one of the booths had been removed. A small sign posted at the cash register immediately ahead said, “Please be seated.” The entrance aisle formed a T intersection from the front door and required a right or left turn to choose a table. Gaspar turned right, walked fifteen feet on checkerboard black and white tile and chose a booth. He sat down hard on the red vinyl upholstered bench, facing the door. Predictable.
Kim headed straight for the restroom, feeling her shoes squeak as each step pressed water through the soles. Noxious fumes from a pine scented air freshener assaulted her when she pushed the door open. She flipped on the harsh overhead florescent and a roaring fan started up. She performed her tasks briskly while forcing herself to ignore the rust stains and broken toilet seat. She pulled a bit of toilet paper to protect her fingers when she flushed and held the handle down, as the note taped to the tank instructed.
Then she checked her reflection in the cracked mirror over the sink. “You’re hopeless,” she told the face. “Be careful or you’ll scare small children.” She pressed the water out of her hair with her hands and washed without touching the nasty soap cake and refused to use the wrinkled pull-down cloth towel hanging from its dispenser near the door. She shook her hands by her sides to dry them as best she could, and then drew her fingers up inside her sleeve and pulled the door open to escape.
She slid onto the bench opposite Gaspar. He was full-on focused watching the diner, the parking lot, everything, like a predatory bird. God, she was tired. What she wouldn’t give for eight hours solid sleep. She’d be a new woman. But food first. She pulled napkins from a chrome holder and used them to dry her hands and pat the rain off her face. There was a two-foot round mirror on the opposite wall. It gave her a decent view of the room behind her. By
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