said.
“Ain’t that bad,” said Zahn.
“Yes, it is,” Del said.
The downtown was a flat grid, mostly brick, yellow and red, with meterless curbs along blacktopped streets, three or four stoplights. Lucas could see both a Motel 6 and a Best Western, Conoco and BP stations on opposite corners with competing convenience stores, a Fran’s Diner followed by a Fran’s Bakery followed by a Fran’s Rapid Oil Change, a McDonald’s on one corner and a Pizza Hut halfway down the block, a sports bar called the Dugout.
At the heart of the town was a scratchy piece of brown grass, patched with gray snow, with a two-story, fifties-ish red-brick courthouse in the middle of it. A newer red-brick Law Enforcement Center hung on to the back of the courthouse, with a fire station even farther back.
Three cops and a couple of firefighters were outside in the cold, leaning against the walls of their buildings, smoking.
Holme’s Motors was across the street from the LEC, in a metal building with a single plate-glass window looking out at a dozen used American cars. Red, white, and blue plastic pennants hung down from a wire stretched above the lot; there was just enough wind to keep them nervously twitching. Zahn pulled into the lot, and through the window they could see a man poking numbers into a desk calculator. “That’s Carl,” Zahn said.
Carl Holme was broad and bald-headed, with a cheerful smile. “Heard about the Negro getting hung,” he said to Zahn, when they pushed through the door. “That’s gonna dust things up, huh?”
“I’d raise your prices before the TV people get here,” Zahn said.
“Really? You think?”
Five minutes after they walked in, they walked back out into the cold. Lucas took the Olds and Del cranked up theMustang and they trundled behind Zahn, a three-car caravan, sixty feet across the street to the Law Enforcement Center.
The smoking cops said hello to Zahn, looked with flat curiosity at Lucas and Del. Zahn took them inside, was buzzed through a bulletproof-glass door to a reception area, where he introduced them to Zelda Holme, the car dealer’s wife, a pretty, round-faced woman who was also secretary to the sheriff.
“Sheriff Anderson called and said you wanted to talk to Letty. We’ve got her back in the lounge,” Holme said, smiling and friendly. “Come right along.”
“I’m gonna take off,” Zahn said to Lucas, lifting a hand. “You’ve got my number. Call if you need anything.”
“See you later,” Lucas said. “Thanks.” He and Del fell in behind Holme, and as they followed her along a cream-painted concrete-block hallway, Lucas mentioned that they’d just rented cars from her husband.
“I hope you counted your fingers after you shook hands with him,” she said cheerfully. “Carl can be a sharp one.”
The lounge was the last door on the right, a pale yellow concrete cubicle with Office Max waiting-room chairs, vending machines, and a slender girl in jeans who had her face in an Outdoor Life magazine.
“Letty, dear?” Holme said. “You’ve got visitors.”
L ETTY W EST TURNED her head and took them in.
She was blond, her hair pulled back tight in a short ponytail. She had warm blue eyes that Lucas thought, for an instant, he recognized from somewhere else, some other time; and an almost oval face, but with a squared jaw and freckles. She wore jeans and a blue sweatshirt and dirt-colored gym shoes that had once been white nylon. A Cokecan sat on an end table at her right hand. She might have been a female Huckleberry Finn, except for a cast of sadness about her eyes—a Pietà-like sadness, strange for a girl so young. Lucas had seen it before, usually in a woman who’d lost a child.
A good-looking kid, Lucas thought, except for the weathering. Her face and hands were rough, and if you hadn’t been able to see her preteen figure, you might have thought she was a twenty-year-old farmer’s daughter, with too much time hoeing beans.
“These
“Ain’t that bad,” said Zahn.
“Yes, it is,” Del said.
The downtown was a flat grid, mostly brick, yellow and red, with meterless curbs along blacktopped streets, three or four stoplights. Lucas could see both a Motel 6 and a Best Western, Conoco and BP stations on opposite corners with competing convenience stores, a Fran’s Diner followed by a Fran’s Bakery followed by a Fran’s Rapid Oil Change, a McDonald’s on one corner and a Pizza Hut halfway down the block, a sports bar called the Dugout.
At the heart of the town was a scratchy piece of brown grass, patched with gray snow, with a two-story, fifties-ish red-brick courthouse in the middle of it. A newer red-brick Law Enforcement Center hung on to the back of the courthouse, with a fire station even farther back.
Three cops and a couple of firefighters were outside in the cold, leaning against the walls of their buildings, smoking.
Holme’s Motors was across the street from the LEC, in a metal building with a single plate-glass window looking out at a dozen used American cars. Red, white, and blue plastic pennants hung down from a wire stretched above the lot; there was just enough wind to keep them nervously twitching. Zahn pulled into the lot, and through the window they could see a man poking numbers into a desk calculator. “That’s Carl,” Zahn said.
Carl Holme was broad and bald-headed, with a cheerful smile. “Heard about the Negro getting hung,” he said to Zahn, when they pushed through the door. “That’s gonna dust things up, huh?”
“I’d raise your prices before the TV people get here,” Zahn said.
“Really? You think?”
Five minutes after they walked in, they walked back out into the cold. Lucas took the Olds and Del cranked up theMustang and they trundled behind Zahn, a three-car caravan, sixty feet across the street to the Law Enforcement Center.
The smoking cops said hello to Zahn, looked with flat curiosity at Lucas and Del. Zahn took them inside, was buzzed through a bulletproof-glass door to a reception area, where he introduced them to Zelda Holme, the car dealer’s wife, a pretty, round-faced woman who was also secretary to the sheriff.
“Sheriff Anderson called and said you wanted to talk to Letty. We’ve got her back in the lounge,” Holme said, smiling and friendly. “Come right along.”
“I’m gonna take off,” Zahn said to Lucas, lifting a hand. “You’ve got my number. Call if you need anything.”
“See you later,” Lucas said. “Thanks.” He and Del fell in behind Holme, and as they followed her along a cream-painted concrete-block hallway, Lucas mentioned that they’d just rented cars from her husband.
“I hope you counted your fingers after you shook hands with him,” she said cheerfully. “Carl can be a sharp one.”
The lounge was the last door on the right, a pale yellow concrete cubicle with Office Max waiting-room chairs, vending machines, and a slender girl in jeans who had her face in an Outdoor Life magazine.
“Letty, dear?” Holme said. “You’ve got visitors.”
L ETTY W EST TURNED her head and took them in.
She was blond, her hair pulled back tight in a short ponytail. She had warm blue eyes that Lucas thought, for an instant, he recognized from somewhere else, some other time; and an almost oval face, but with a squared jaw and freckles. She wore jeans and a blue sweatshirt and dirt-colored gym shoes that had once been white nylon. A Cokecan sat on an end table at her right hand. She might have been a female Huckleberry Finn, except for a cast of sadness about her eyes—a Pietà-like sadness, strange for a girl so young. Lucas had seen it before, usually in a woman who’d lost a child.
A good-looking kid, Lucas thought, except for the weathering. Her face and hands were rough, and if you hadn’t been able to see her preteen figure, you might have thought she was a twenty-year-old farmer’s daughter, with too much time hoeing beans.
“These
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