talked."
"It's a small town," Dave said. "You must have run into each other now and then."
"No. I don't move in the country club set. My speed is the movies and the bowling alley." Ito tamped the edges of the scripts on the dresser top and laid them in a neat stack. "If I was going to see him, it would almost have to be here. It was. Only a couple weeks ago. He drove in in that white T-bird of his. To see a guest. Guy from France. I was raking the garden. Mr. Olson passed me. He nodded and smiled. That was all." Ito frowned and sighed. "Just the same, I'm sorry he's dead. He was the nicest guy I ever expect to meet. . . ."
In the sunlit Daffodil Café, while Dave ate scrambled eggs and fresh country sausage, the little yellow plastic radio played Fox Olson again. Telling one of his stories this time. A lot was missing when you read them to yourself. The book would be funny. But a better idea would have been to put the stories on disks. Olson's easy, dry delivery gave them a—what word did he want?—drollness that print never could.
On the stools along the counter, at the tables in the booths, truck drivers, shopkeepers, ranch and vineyard hands grinned and chuckled and guffawed, forgetting the good coffee, the bacon and buckwheat cakes, the buttery breakfast rolls growing cold in front of them.
The story was about Aunt Minnie Husk, who, when the Cottonwood Comers water tower was toppled by beavers who'd mistaken the props for saplings, used the tank as a mold in which to bake the world's biggest cupcake, and how the resulting invasion of the town by millions of mice had been solved by the providential arrival of owls, "who gorged themselves till they were too heavy to fly. They could only sit on the ground and belch. "
Dave had read it and laughed at it last night. He laughed now, allover again. Next to him sat a pair of high-school girls, Cokes in front of them, books in their laps. One was pretty and dark and wore braces on her teeth. The other was red-haired, freckled and fat. Pinned to each of their blouses was a big orange-and-blue campaign button: OLSON FOR MAYOR . When the story ended and a cigarette commercial twanged and everybody began eating again, Dave nodded at the buttons.
"Isn't it a little late for that?"
The pretty one gave him a cold look. "No. Everyone in school's wearing them. We loved him."
"Anyway," the freckled one said, "we don't think he's dead."
Dave nearly choked on his coffee. "You don't? Why not?"
The pretty one said dramatically, "Because his body was never found. Only his car."
"So I heard." Dave lit a cigarette. The tiny counter ashtray was yellow plastic. It looked flammable. He shook the match out carefully. "But if he's not dead, what happened to him?"
The freckled girl was poking a pair of bent paper straws among the melting ice chips in the bottom of her glass, noisily sucking up the last drops of sweetness. She stopped that for a second to say, "He was kidnapped."
"You're kidding. By whom? What for?"
"Mayor Chalmers, of course." The pretty girl was disgusted to have to explain anything so obvious. "Till the election's over."
"Come on, Lou Ann." The fat girl got off her stool. "If I'm late again, my mom will confiscate my tapes."
Picking up her books, Lou Ann told Dave, "Doreen's got every Fox Olson broadcast—"
"Till school started." Doreen made the correction over her shoulder, hurrying toward the Daffodil's screen door. There was a lot of her. All of it jiggled.
The street was as dry now as if it had never rained. By afternoon it would be dusty. Cars parked on the bias in Pima. He nosed his to the high curb between a pair of identical, mud-crusted pickup trucks piled with empty orange crates. The building he faced was old red brick. Two stories. On the downstairs windows peeling gilt lettering read PIMA VALLEY SUN . When he was on the sidewalk he saw through the windows that the paint inside was time-darkened, the desks and
"It's a small town," Dave said. "You must have run into each other now and then."
"No. I don't move in the country club set. My speed is the movies and the bowling alley." Ito tamped the edges of the scripts on the dresser top and laid them in a neat stack. "If I was going to see him, it would almost have to be here. It was. Only a couple weeks ago. He drove in in that white T-bird of his. To see a guest. Guy from France. I was raking the garden. Mr. Olson passed me. He nodded and smiled. That was all." Ito frowned and sighed. "Just the same, I'm sorry he's dead. He was the nicest guy I ever expect to meet. . . ."
In the sunlit Daffodil Café, while Dave ate scrambled eggs and fresh country sausage, the little yellow plastic radio played Fox Olson again. Telling one of his stories this time. A lot was missing when you read them to yourself. The book would be funny. But a better idea would have been to put the stories on disks. Olson's easy, dry delivery gave them a—what word did he want?—drollness that print never could.
On the stools along the counter, at the tables in the booths, truck drivers, shopkeepers, ranch and vineyard hands grinned and chuckled and guffawed, forgetting the good coffee, the bacon and buckwheat cakes, the buttery breakfast rolls growing cold in front of them.
The story was about Aunt Minnie Husk, who, when the Cottonwood Comers water tower was toppled by beavers who'd mistaken the props for saplings, used the tank as a mold in which to bake the world's biggest cupcake, and how the resulting invasion of the town by millions of mice had been solved by the providential arrival of owls, "who gorged themselves till they were too heavy to fly. They could only sit on the ground and belch. "
Dave had read it and laughed at it last night. He laughed now, allover again. Next to him sat a pair of high-school girls, Cokes in front of them, books in their laps. One was pretty and dark and wore braces on her teeth. The other was red-haired, freckled and fat. Pinned to each of their blouses was a big orange-and-blue campaign button: OLSON FOR MAYOR . When the story ended and a cigarette commercial twanged and everybody began eating again, Dave nodded at the buttons.
"Isn't it a little late for that?"
The pretty one gave him a cold look. "No. Everyone in school's wearing them. We loved him."
"Anyway," the freckled one said, "we don't think he's dead."
Dave nearly choked on his coffee. "You don't? Why not?"
The pretty one said dramatically, "Because his body was never found. Only his car."
"So I heard." Dave lit a cigarette. The tiny counter ashtray was yellow plastic. It looked flammable. He shook the match out carefully. "But if he's not dead, what happened to him?"
The freckled girl was poking a pair of bent paper straws among the melting ice chips in the bottom of her glass, noisily sucking up the last drops of sweetness. She stopped that for a second to say, "He was kidnapped."
"You're kidding. By whom? What for?"
"Mayor Chalmers, of course." The pretty girl was disgusted to have to explain anything so obvious. "Till the election's over."
"Come on, Lou Ann." The fat girl got off her stool. "If I'm late again, my mom will confiscate my tapes."
Picking up her books, Lou Ann told Dave, "Doreen's got every Fox Olson broadcast—"
"Till school started." Doreen made the correction over her shoulder, hurrying toward the Daffodil's screen door. There was a lot of her. All of it jiggled.
The street was as dry now as if it had never rained. By afternoon it would be dusty. Cars parked on the bias in Pima. He nosed his to the high curb between a pair of identical, mud-crusted pickup trucks piled with empty orange crates. The building he faced was old red brick. Two stories. On the downstairs windows peeling gilt lettering read PIMA VALLEY SUN . When he was on the sidewalk he saw through the windows that the paint inside was time-darkened, the desks and
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