little place only has a few cars on the lot.”
“I suppose we could use a good meal,” Ellie agreed. “And try not to be so nervous, Lou.”
There was only one other customer in the small diner. They chose a booth in the far corner away from the counter and grill, a secluded corner near a plate glass window. Roebuck studiously avoided looking at the dead moths on the long metal sill as he and Ellie slid into the booth.
“Help you folks?” It was the cook who had been standing behind the counter when they entered, a fat, greasy man in a white shirt and apron. He placed two glasses of water on the booth table.
“What’s good?” Ellie asked.
“Everything,” the man answered flatly. He held a broken pencil poised over his order tablet. “Special’s the best, and it’s all cooked up. Roast beef and gravy.”
“That’ll be good,” Roebuck said. “And two coffees.”
The fat man made a quick notation on his tablet and moved off.
“No need to keep looking out the window,” Ellie said. “We’re safe here.”
Roebuck smiled at her. He knew she represented the transition in his image from a hard-pressed fugitive to an average family man on the road with his wife. Of course, that was the image seen by the outsider. He knew he was a fugitive, and so did Ellie.
“There’s something I’d like to tell you,” Roebuck said confidentially.
Ellie waited, revolving her glass slowly in the spreading ring of water it left on the table.
“My real name’s not Lou Watson, it’s Lou Roebuck.”
She looked up at him, her eyes unreadable.
“The seawater story, that wasn’t true either. It was to test you, to see if I could really trust you.”
“And can you?”
“I can,” Roebuck said. “That’s why I’ve decided to tell you the truth, the absolute truth.”
“I don’t know if there is such a thing, Lou.”
“Roast beef, folks.” The fat man waddled toward them with two platters of beef and mashed potatoes covered with gravy. He set a plate before each of them. “You came to the right spot, folks. Finest eating this side of the Mississip!”
“Thanks,” Roebuck said, watching the bulging retreating back.
“Then you aren’t really a wanted man?” Ellie asked.
“I am,” Roebuck said, “and I want to tell you how it happened.”
The one other customer left, an old man who’d been sitting at the counter. “See you, Ab!” the fat man called. Ab raised a feeble hand and went out into the greater heat beyond the door.
“It started during the war,” Roebuck said seriously, “when I was just a kid, in the Battle of the Bulge. Old Jerry took us by surprise and we knew we had a battle on our hands. It was fight and fall back. Some of the finest men I ever knew died there.
“I was a sergeant, despite my age, the leader of a platoon that was ordered to fight a rear action because we were seasoned troops. We were dug in along a shallow dry drainage ditch when the Germans came. All of a sudden they opened up with a machine gun, killing one of my men and wounding another. We had to knock out that machine gun!”
“Here’s your coffee, folks.” The fat man had returned. “Traveling far?”
“To California,” Roebuck said, irritated. He waited in icy silence until the fat man had walked back behind the counter out of hearing range.
“We could hear the clank of tank treads in the distance,” Roebuck went on, “a terrible sound. Something had to be done about the machine gun right away, and I didn’t want to ask any of my men…so I did it myself. I cut down along the ditch, doubled back and threw a grenade. I had to shoot one of the Germans with my service revolver and strangle another. Then I turned the machine gun on the German tank. It was—”
“You folks ought’a stop off down the highway and see the Crazy House,” the fat man called from behind the counter. “It’s an anti-gravity place. Balls roll uphill, water don’t set right in a glass. Only cost you fifty
“I suppose we could use a good meal,” Ellie agreed. “And try not to be so nervous, Lou.”
There was only one other customer in the small diner. They chose a booth in the far corner away from the counter and grill, a secluded corner near a plate glass window. Roebuck studiously avoided looking at the dead moths on the long metal sill as he and Ellie slid into the booth.
“Help you folks?” It was the cook who had been standing behind the counter when they entered, a fat, greasy man in a white shirt and apron. He placed two glasses of water on the booth table.
“What’s good?” Ellie asked.
“Everything,” the man answered flatly. He held a broken pencil poised over his order tablet. “Special’s the best, and it’s all cooked up. Roast beef and gravy.”
“That’ll be good,” Roebuck said. “And two coffees.”
The fat man made a quick notation on his tablet and moved off.
“No need to keep looking out the window,” Ellie said. “We’re safe here.”
Roebuck smiled at her. He knew she represented the transition in his image from a hard-pressed fugitive to an average family man on the road with his wife. Of course, that was the image seen by the outsider. He knew he was a fugitive, and so did Ellie.
“There’s something I’d like to tell you,” Roebuck said confidentially.
Ellie waited, revolving her glass slowly in the spreading ring of water it left on the table.
“My real name’s not Lou Watson, it’s Lou Roebuck.”
She looked up at him, her eyes unreadable.
“The seawater story, that wasn’t true either. It was to test you, to see if I could really trust you.”
“And can you?”
“I can,” Roebuck said. “That’s why I’ve decided to tell you the truth, the absolute truth.”
“I don’t know if there is such a thing, Lou.”
“Roast beef, folks.” The fat man waddled toward them with two platters of beef and mashed potatoes covered with gravy. He set a plate before each of them. “You came to the right spot, folks. Finest eating this side of the Mississip!”
“Thanks,” Roebuck said, watching the bulging retreating back.
“Then you aren’t really a wanted man?” Ellie asked.
“I am,” Roebuck said, “and I want to tell you how it happened.”
The one other customer left, an old man who’d been sitting at the counter. “See you, Ab!” the fat man called. Ab raised a feeble hand and went out into the greater heat beyond the door.
“It started during the war,” Roebuck said seriously, “when I was just a kid, in the Battle of the Bulge. Old Jerry took us by surprise and we knew we had a battle on our hands. It was fight and fall back. Some of the finest men I ever knew died there.
“I was a sergeant, despite my age, the leader of a platoon that was ordered to fight a rear action because we were seasoned troops. We were dug in along a shallow dry drainage ditch when the Germans came. All of a sudden they opened up with a machine gun, killing one of my men and wounding another. We had to knock out that machine gun!”
“Here’s your coffee, folks.” The fat man had returned. “Traveling far?”
“To California,” Roebuck said, irritated. He waited in icy silence until the fat man had walked back behind the counter out of hearing range.
“We could hear the clank of tank treads in the distance,” Roebuck went on, “a terrible sound. Something had to be done about the machine gun right away, and I didn’t want to ask any of my men…so I did it myself. I cut down along the ditch, doubled back and threw a grenade. I had to shoot one of the Germans with my service revolver and strangle another. Then I turned the machine gun on the German tank. It was—”
“You folks ought’a stop off down the highway and see the Crazy House,” the fat man called from behind the counter. “It’s an anti-gravity place. Balls roll uphill, water don’t set right in a glass. Only cost you fifty
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