THE NEXT MORNING FIELDING AWOKE EARLY AND MADE HIS coffee and shaved and then went to the barn and fed and talked to the horses. By the time all of that had been taken care of it was still early. He’d found a café in town and decided to get some breakfast.
It was a place called Ted’s Country Café but it wasn’t in the country and there was no one named Ted. There was a linoleum counter and the smoking section was near the back. He always took a table by the window. The waitress always called him honey or sweetie or dear. She had long legs and wore cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans and she had a reputation that could only be described as flirtatious.
It was still dark when Fielding showed up. He ordered eggs over easy and wheat toast with black coffee. The waitress pointed her pencil at him.
You’re the one who bought the old Harris place out past Twelve Mile ain’t you?
Maybe.
Got horses? Or are you just one a them hobby ranchers?
Two horses, Fielding said. One’s a mule.
Two horses and a mule?
The one is a mule.
So just a horse, she said.
Mule ain’t a horse?
A mule’s a mule, she said. Just like a dog’s a dog and cat’s a cat.
And a bird is a bird, Fielding said.
Now you got it.
She smiled at him and he smiled right back.
And I’m a Cheryl, she said.
I know, Fielding said.
So what are you?
Old enough to be yer granddad, that’s what I am.
She laughed at that and hit him in the arm with her order pad.
An order was called from the kitchen and she winked at him and turned heel.
Fielding picked up his paper and popped it but before he could read anything he heard someone say:
You the one from back east?
Fielding looked over the top of his paper. There was a uniformed man sitting not far from Fielding’s table. Fielding said, If yeh consider Iowa back east.
I suppose everything is east of here, the man said.
Amos Fielding, Fielding said.
Dee, the man said. Dee Batey.
Dee Batey? That sounds made-up.
I guess it is a little. Someone had to make it up.
Based on the uniform the man was wearing Fielding asked if he was a game warden.
Fish and Wildlife, Batey said.
Don’t call it a game warden no more?
I don’t know.
Fair enough.
You want a little company, Batey said. See you in here most days. Don’t want to intrude on your routine none.
That’d be fine, Fielding said. Got all kinds of new routines these days.
Batey stood and took his saucer and coffee and paper and went to the table. He set the coffee and paper down and then they shook hands. Cheryl brought the pot of coffee and refilled their mugs.
Thank you, darling, Batey said.
You know animals, don’t you, Dee, Cheryl said.
Batey tapped the insignia on his chest.
Is a mule a horse? she asked.
A mule’s a mule, he said.
Thanks, Dee, she said. She winked at Fielding again. Your eggs are almost ready.
They both watched her walk back to the kitchen.
Yeh think she had to practice that walk? Fielding said.
Practice got nothing to do with it.
I think she might like me, Fielding said.
Hate to steal your wind, partner, but she likes everyone.
Too young for me anyway, I suppose, Fielding said. Wouldn’t even know where to start. Must have one understandin husband.
Hell no, Batey said. Jealous as a penguin.
What’s that?
Jealous as a penguin? Bird that can’t fly.
That a Fish and Wildlife thing?
I don’t know. Just come up with some things sometimes and hope one or two will stick.
Fielding sipped his coffee. Batey pointed at it.
Will never go below half, he said.
Sign of a good place, Fielding said.
Sure is.
Your name rings a bell.
What kind of bell?
Then it occurred to Fielding who this man was. Fielding snapped his fingers.
You’re that warden who found that body up in the mountains. All them years back. Heard it on the news the other night.
Yes, Batey said. He looked down at the table and combed his black hair over with his fingers. That was unlucky.
Heard they found another.
Also unlucky.
They sat there nodding at each other. They sat there for a while. They drank their coffee. There was music playing in the café. It sounded like it was coming from the ceiling. Batey pointed a finger upward.
You like this, he asked. Grunge music, they’re calling it. The kids love it.
It’s all I hear these days, Fielding said. This or that Madonna lady.
You don’t like Madonna?
Fielding shrugged. Kind of spooky, if yeh ask me. Kind a like a siren.
Like the one with a light?
Like in the sea, Fielding said. Them pretty girls that would call sailors into the rocks. That’s what she reminds me of. She’ll call yeh in with that pretty voice and that pretty face and then she’ll eat yeh alive.
I can see that, Batey said. What kind of music do you like?
Older stuff, I suppose. I ain’t too good on names anymore.
Uh-huh, Batey said. What kind of cheese do you like?
Cheese?
Yeah.
What kind of question is that?
Just a question.
Fielding thought. Orange, I guess.
Orange?
I guess.
Uh-huh.
Uh-huh, what?
Orange cheese, old music, and you take your coffee black. You’re a simple man, Mr Fielding. And I mean that in a good way. Everyone these days is trying too hard to be complicated. Everyone’s a goddamn artist.
Yeh got kids, Fielding asked, nodding at Batey’s wedding ring.
Yes sir. Eighteen and twenty. Both girls. Both out of the house.
Must be quiet.
Deathly. But it has its moments of solace. How about you? Any kids out there?
Not that I know of.
You got a missus tending the new homestead?
No sir, Fielding said. I’m what yeh call a widower.
Oh, Batey said. Shit. I’m sorry.
Nah. We had a good run.
It was almost 8:00 a.m. and still dark and all the trucks passing the café had their lights on and through the streaked glass you could hear the tires zipping on the wet asphalt and when there was no traffic the rain could be heard on the café’s windows and sometimes, faintly, on the hood of Batey’s Bronco parked just beyond the glass.
Sun ever come out around here? Fielding asked.
Oh sure, Batey said. There’s a week or two in July when you can almost get a sunburn. What did you do back in Iowa?
Sheriff, Fielding said. Small town of Oscar.
Sounds made-up.
Like your name.
Batey smiled.
Must have been quiet, Batey said. For a lawman, so to speak.
It had its moments.
World’s gone crazy, Batey said.
It’s always been crazy. It’s jest new flavors.
Yeah, Batey said. New flavors.
Yeh always been Fish and Wildlife?
No sir. DEA. A few lifetimes ago.
DEA, Fielding said. Bet yeh saw a few things.
A few don’t even scratch the paint. I got stories that’ll curl your toenails.
Well, Fielding said, we’ll always have somethin to talk about, I suppose.
Not sure if any of that needs to be said ever again.
Fielding just nodded.
The front page of the paper had a picture of Amy Barnhardt on it. Senior photo. Little caption of achievements. The accompanying article had a few vague details. Both men looked down at it. Batey shook his head.
They’re saying drugs are playing a big part in all this, he said. Autopsies coming back with all kinds of nonsense loaded into these girls. Cocktails of shit that could knock out a Clydesdale. Pardon my French.
I suspect we’ll start seein more suits and ties round here.
I suspect you’re right. Batey sipped his coffee. Maybe you can lend a hand in all of it?
In all of what?
An old lawman might come in handy around here.
Count me out, Fielding said. That life’s behind me.
Nothing’s ever behind us, Batey said. As long as we can still remember it, it’s there.
Yeh read Schopenhauer?
Schopen-what?
Arthur Schopenhauer, Fielding said. He said life swings backward and forward between pain and boredom. When we’re in pain we want the numbness of boredom and when we’re bored we want to feel somethin else.
Sounds bleak, Batey said.
Yeh’ve never lived through a Midwest winter I take it. Anyway, Fielding said, I’m tryin a keep that pendulum right down the middle. No pain, no boredom.
Sounds nice.
Sounds is one thing. Doin is another.
I take it back, Batey said.
Take what back?
That stuff about you being a simple man.
Ah, don’t let it fool yeh, Fielding said. I’m as simple as they come.