Читаем Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966 полностью

After Joe and Kitty died in that wreck, I tried to go it alone. But a jinx was on the place. Business fell off. Customers started griping about the food and the service. I hired a cook, but he was a drunk and I had to get rid of him. I hired a counter man. He was fast and glib, but he couldn’t keep his fingers out of the till.

All hell broke loose. I fell and broke my hip and was laid up for six weeks. Mary Ellen had a bad siege of pneumonia. A customer swallowed a glass chip in the mashed potatoes and sued me for five thousand dollars. I didn’t want to do it... but I had to close the place for a while. Then, Jim Parrish built that big, flashy restaurant across from mine and grabbed off my regular trade. He landed the Greyhound stop franchise, too.

The location is terrific for a food stop, so I don’t blame Parrish a bit. The next restaurant north is up in Flat Rock. But the traffic detours the town. Then there’s a chicken shack south of here near Monroe. I’m midway. Me and Parrish.

His place is really a driver’s dream. And he called it just that: “Driver’s Dream”... a big place with U-shaped formica counters and cute waitresses in bright yellow uniforms. Plus the flaming jukeboxes, the fluorescent lights, and the slot machines. I can’t compete with anything like that. But I tried to for a while. That was my mistake. I put up a half dozen shacks in the rear and a flashing neon sign in front to pull the motel trade. But no dice! It was like throwing money in the furnace.

Last year I decided to give it up... unload the “Trolley Lunch” on the first sucker I met with a bank account and a yen to go into business for himself. But then I decided to wait until Mary Ellen got married and had a couple little ones. That would knock those screwball stage ideas out of her head! Stan Clark looked like good husband-material to me. But Mary Ellen dangled him like a puppet. Mary Ellen had dollar signs and glory dust in her eyes... and definite ideas about “latching on to a gravy boat.” And this slicker with the snaky eyes looked like Mr. Gravy himself. He sat there grinning at Mary Ellen with a big mouth full of tiny teeth.

“So you own the place?” he was saying in that tenor coo of his. “High finance, eh, gorgeous?”

Mary leaned across the counter confidentially with that sick siren look on her pan. “Not too high, mister,” she whispered in that artificial stage voice. “Just in range, honey. Just in range!”

She dazzled him with a come-hither look and walked with her little rolling strut into her back room. The door to the ladies’ room was open, and Mary was smearing on lipstick and checking the cracked cabinet mirror for the results. She pivoted fast and almost collided with me in the doorway.

“Listen to me, Mary Ellen. I want you to cut it out...”

“What are you talking about, Unk?” she said. Injured innocence!

“You know what I mean. Cut it out. I don’t like his looks!”

“You don’t like anybody’s looks, Unk. Except Stan Clark’s!” She reached up and pinched my cheek. “Let me handle the women’s work, will you?” she whispered. Then she slipped into gear and went rolling out front.

The guy’s routine was like grease on his squeaky-axle voice, and he shifted expressions like you flip switches. He was wearing that admiration look now. Teeth and eye-wrinkles. “Why the lip varnish?” he said. “You don’t paint orchids or shellac lilies!”

Mary Ellen parted her smeared lips the way Marilyn Monroe did. “I bet you tell that to all the counter girls!”

“You’re no counter girl,” he answered. “You’re some hotshot princess traveling incognito. You’re a sugar bowl Cinderella!”

Mary smiled uncertainly and offered him more coffee and he answered yes. He said something nice about the coffee and Mary gave him her stock line, “Tell all your friends and relatives!”

“I don’t have any friends and relatives,” the guy said.

“Now stop it! Everybody’s got relatives!” Mary teased.

“Nope. No relatives for me, kid-do. Just creditors...”

“That’s bad?” Mary flipped. “You got to have money to have credit!”

He played with his spoon idly. “You get the idea, sugar.” Then he swung up the cup and drained it and reached for the napkin.

“What are your rates for a cabin?” he said suddenly, all business.

Mary looked carefully at the expensive clothes and said timidly, “Seven dollars.” That’s two dollars more than we usually charge. The stranger didn’t argue, though.

“I may stay a few days,” he said. “Maybe three or four. Depends.”

Mary Ellen fished the register out from under the counter, opened it in front of him, and handed him a pen.

“What’s that for?” he said suspiciously.

“Why it’s the motel register!” Mary Ellen laughed. “Sign, please.”

“You sign it for me,” he snapped. He slid off his seat quickly.

Mary Ellen seemed confused. “Well... what’s your name?”

The man looked at the coffee cup and smiled. “Just call me ‘Coffee’,” he flipped. “Joe Coffee...”

Mary scribbled in the book. “And what is the nature of your business?” Mr. Coffee looked impatient.

“I’m a salesman. That’s close enough.”

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