twenty

The diner was hot even though the sun was almost down. The full-length windows meant the sun had been blazing across the vinyl booths for most of the day. The smell of coffee and hot plastic filled the room. Hunter Athey was right. Sarah Hellstrom should invest in air conditioning.

Grant came through the door at a measured pace. Years as a cop and a soldier told him never to go barging through a door in a conflict situation, especially if you don’t know the enemy’s strength or position. Grant didn’t know either of them, so he entered the diner with hooded eyes and flexed muscles.

Sarah was alone behind the counter.

The rest of the diner was empty.

Grant felt relieved but didn’t relax. He’d learned over the years to trust his instincts, and his instincts told him something was wrong. His first priority was to check on Sarah. She turned to face him as he crossed towards the counter. The espresso machine was gleaming, its chrome boiler shiny enough to see your face in. Sarah folded the tea towel she’d been using and glanced through the window.

“I see you’re still having trouble with other people’s cars.”

The words were light but there was tension in her voice.

Grant went with the flow. “Back roads and hillbillies. Dangerous combination.”

“We don’t have hillbillies in Texas.”

“And you don’t have moss either.”

Sarah nodded but didn’t smile. “Too dry for moss. No hills for hillbillies.”

“I didn’t want to sound racist.”

“Saying it like it is isn’t racist.”

“Okay, then. Couple of Mexicans took exception to me stepping in on a friend of theirs.”

“What did he do?”

“Burned his wife on a stove. Bruised her arms.”

Sarah shuddered. She resisted touching the bruises under her sleeve. “That just makes him a man, then. Not a Mexican.”

There was bite in her tone. A complete change to when she’d loaned him the car. He didn’t have her down as a man hater even though she had plenty of reason to be judgmental. Grant changed the subject.

“Coffee machine working today?”

Meaning was she going to serve him or make an excuse? She didn’t make an excuse. Without asking what he wanted, she began to make a latte. Expert hands worked the steam pipes and the coffee grounds. The milk frothed and the coffee poured, leaving a brown swirl across the top of his cream. She didn’t put a lid on his paper cup.

Grant sat on a stool at the counter and slid the money across.

Sarah didn’t argue, ringing it into the cash register.

An uneasy silence developed. Grant looked at the woman who’d mopped his spillage but didn’t press her to speak. This town had a way of crushing people’s spirits. He just didn’t think Sarah Hellstrom was the crushable type. That was easy for Grant to think. He was a stranger in town. Whatever happened, he would be moving on like a rolling stone gathering no moss. Sarah would have to live here after he’d gone. She’d already rejected his suggestion that America had plenty of room for her elsewhere.

His eyes watched Sarah but they saw a lot more. The gleaming chrome boiler behind her reflected everything. A convex mirror on the rest of the diner. He sensed movement even before he saw it. The utility room door opened to his right. The front door opened to his left. Two men, one through each door. They walked tall and moved slow. Measured steps on either side of Grant.

The cowboy from the hotel sat on the stool to Grant’s right. The man who’d been sitting out front of the hotel with him stood behind him, arms folded across his chest, standing guard. Grant sipped his coffee and put the cup back on the counter. Steam drifted like smoke from a burning cigarette.

Nobody spoke.

Sarah held her breath.

Grant let his out in a long, steady exhale.

The cowboy swung his stool to face Grant. “You’re in my seat.”

Grant looked at the cowboy while keeping half an eye on the other fella. “Is this like me being in your room at the hotel?”

“Just like that.”

“You block booked this seat as well?”

“It’s my favorite.”

The different route to getting a job with Macready. Opportunity knocked. Grant wasn’t ready to take it yet. He moved to the next stool and slid his coffee along the counter. The cowboy moved onto the vacant stool and shuffled his backside to get comfortable. It didn’t work. He looked at Grant’s stool instead.

“This ain’t comfy anymore. I think I like that one.”

Grant could see the pattern developing. The bullies’ rulebook on playground intimidation. He let his shoulders sag as if deflated but used the chrome boiler to keep an eye on the big fella behind him. Grant stood and picked up his coffee. Followed the playbook he’d seen in numerous movies.

“Why don’t you tell me where to sit?”

The cowboy switched seats again but didn’t speak. After a suitable pause, Grant sat on his original stool. He took a sip of his coffee and put the cup down on the counter, tempting the cowboy to make the next move. The bully couldn’t resist. As obvious as the movie this scene came from.

“You forgot your sugar.”

He picked up the sugar dispenser and turned it upside down. The nozzle poured a steady stream into Grant’s cup and just kept pouring. When the coffee had turned to hot, runny sludge, he put the sugar back on the counter. The cowboy smirked. The backup man nodded his approval. Grant looked at his latte, then pushed it across the counter.

“Was that your favorite film growing up?”

The question caught the cowboy by surprise.

“Huh?”

“Bad Day at Black Rock.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Spencer Tracy as a one-armed man coming to town. Lee Marvin as a cowboy trying to goad him.”

The cowboy thought he’d try being smart.

“The one-armed man that killed Harrison Ford’s wife?”

Grant shook his head.

“Different movie. No. Lee Marvin does all that ‘you’re in my room’ stuff at the hotel. And Ernest Borgnine does the pushing at the diner.”

He turned towards the cowboy.

“Only with ketchup instead of sugar. Same thing, though—messing with Tracy’s food. Chili, not coffee. But much the same. You must have seen it on TV because you’re playing it word for word.”

The cowboy let a faint smile play across his lips. “Oh yeah. I think I might have seen it now.”

Grant didn’t need the boiler to see. He could watch both men from his position swivelled around on the stool. The bodyguard still had both arms folded across his chest. Good for intimidation but not very clever if you needed to move fast. The part-time deputy was leaning on the counter, aiming for threatening but just proving his lack of knowledge about angles and levers. Like leaning back in his chair at the hotel. Looks cool. Completely impractical.

Grant kept his voice friendly but his eyes turned hard. “You remember how that turned out?”

The smile went from the cowboy’s face. In the split second before it happened he obviously did remember how Spencer Tracy had beaten Ernest Borgnine senseless using one arm and leverage. He tried to stand up too late. Grant snatched his cup and threw the sludge into the cowboy’s face. Still hot enough to sting, but it was the shock factor Grant was looking for.

The cowboy brought both hands up to his face.

The bodyguard tried to unfold his arms.

Grant leaned back on his stool and used the leverage to swing one leg upwards, aiming the kick between the big fella’s legs. The wind left him in a gush and he doubled over, grabbing his balls. Grant sidestepped from his stool and used the big man’s forward momentum to grab his head and slam it down onto the stool. Blood and snot exploded from his nose, and he went down hard.

The cowboy’s eyes were gummed shut. Grant bent one arm so that the elbow protruded, then slammed the pointed end into the cowboy’s face. He went backwards over his stool and landed upside down. It was only loose-limbed shock that saved him from breaking his neck. Grant stamped on his balls for good measure, giving both men the same thing to worry about.

Thirty seconds. Two men down. Both disabled for as long as it would take for their wedding tackle to stop aching. They lay moaning on the floor. Grant leaned down and grabbed the cowboy by the hair.

“And you know the funny thing? Tracy’s character was called Macready.”

He let the head go. It banged on the stool’s footrest. “So. Take me to your leader.”

It couldn’t have gone better. Apart from the look of surprise and disgust on Sarah Hellstrom’s face. That wasn’t something Grant had planned for. He tried to ignore her as he began reviving the fallen cowboy.