The sign over the pass-through from the kitchen said: EVERYONE BRINGS JOY TO THIS ESTABLISHMENT, SOME BY ENTERING, OTHERS BY LEAVING. I figured I fell into the former category, ’cause Charity Nonesuch lit up like a gambler at Las Vegas when she spotted me.
“What can I do you for, Homer?” she axed. “Coffee for openers?”
I set down at the counter. “Yes, ma’am.”
The sign out front says HARDSETTER’S FOOD AND GAS, but everyone just calls it the Truck Stop. It’s the best place in Boone County to eat well an’ cheap. There’s always half a dozen big rigs out front—a sure sign of a good place—an’ Cadillacs an’ New Yorkers park in b’tween the Chevys, Fords, an’ GMCs. Locals from West Wheeling an’ Okra drop in ’fore goin’ out for a show, or bowlin’, or a evenin’ of power shoppin’ at the Wal-Mart. Bein’ a single man, I’m a fairly regular customer myself.
Charity set a steamin’ mug in front of me an’ waited.
“The usual, Charity,” I said.
She scribbled “S&EOE” on her notepad, then put the order on the pass-through ledge. She looked ’round to see if her other customers needed her, then got herself a cup of coffee an’ leaned over the counter. She’s blonde, an’ what I would call a generous woman, in every sense of the word. When she leaned toward me, I got a eyeful of her generous endowments, barely contained by a tight, V-neck blouse.
“What brings you up this way?” she axed.
I took out one of the missin’ man posters, which I had rolled up in my front shirt pocket, an’ spread it out on the counter. “I wonder if you know this man?”
She gave me a sly grin an’ said, “Wouldn’t be surprised. I know most of the men in Boone County.”
I knew what she meant. I had a standin’ invitation, myself, to stop by her place for dessert.
Then she got serious. She took a look at Roger Devon an’ shook her head. “Can’t say I’ve seen this fella. Been missin’ a month, it says here. Sad.”
I said, “Yeah. It was a long shot, anyway. He’s one of the Pine Ridge missionaries.”
Charity pushed off from the counter an’ circumnavigated the room lookin’ for customers in need of refills. There were three long-haul drivers, regulars, an’ a couple Okra boys in Beastie Boys shirts. When she come back, she axed, “What else is new?”
“We got a revenuer in town.”
That made her prick up her ears. “Treasury man?”
“ATF.”
“Am I gonna hafta drag every detail outta you?”
I shrugged. “Not much detail. He’s got a badge an’ a attitude, an’ he’s lookin’ for Ash Jackson. You seen Ash lately?”
“No. Must be goin’ on a month since he’s been in.” She didn’t sound too troubled about that. “There any connection between that and this young man gone missin’?”
“There you got me, Charity. Far as I can see, there’s just the timin’ to connect ’em.”
“And Angie Boone.”
“Word does get ’round.”
She blushed. “Well, Rye Willis delivers our … supplies.” She meant the home brew the Truck Stop kept under the counter for regular customers.
“An’ Len Hartman delivers your mail. He oughtta get extra for the newscasts.”
“He said Nina told him. She oughtta know.”
“She oughtta know better’n to pass along gossip.”
Charity ignored that. “You want I should tape this poster up on the counter by the register?”
“I’d be obliged.”