“A snowplow could make a good getaway car,” he said, “if you still wanted to rob the place.”
The girl opened her eyes. For a moment Hawley thought she was going to start crying, but instead she laughed. It sounded like a baby laughing. She lifted her head from the counter and wiped her eyes and then she put her hand on his elbow again. Her fingers were warm this time. “Thanks,” she said.
And Hawley knew that he had said just the right thing. It was a good feeling, to know that he had. Soon they would get off these stools and never see each other again but for now they sat in a quiet that held just the two of them and sipped their milkshakes. Then the bell over the door rang and Ed King walked into the diner.
He was wearing a shiny, oversize dark-brown suit. His hair was shaved close to his head and he had a nose that hung from his face like a door off its hinges. The man was older than Hawley, close to Jove’s age. But he still carried himself like a boxer.
“You Sam Hawley?”
“That’s right.”
King came and stood next to him at the counter. They shook hands and Hawley could feel the strength in the man’s arm. All the time King was staring at the girl, the corner of his eyelid twitching. “Looks like you already ate.”
Hawley realized that if he introduced them he might find out the girl’s name. But he didn’t want her to know Ed King. He didn’t want her to see the kind of people he ran with, or to find out any of the rotten things he’d done. Hawley picked up the duffel bag and Jove’s satchel and motioned to the waitress that he was moving to one of the booths.
“Nice talking with you,” the girl said.
“Sure,” said Hawley.
They took one of the booths in the corner. Hawley sat with his back to the girl so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at her. He focused on King’s broken nose. He checked the mirrors, nudged the money with his foot, took a swig of water to clear the sweetness out of his throat. The waitress came over and brought a menu.
“Got any specials?” King asked.
“The pork. We roast our own every day out back. And the pie. We’ve got eight different kinds.” Ed King ordered a pulled-pork stew and a cup of coffee and a slice of pie.
“What kind of pie you want?” the waitress asked.
“Bring me what’s fresh.”
“All our pies are fresh.”
“Then bring them all.”
After the waitress left them, Ed King took the satchel from Hawley and placed it on the seat next to him in the booth. He opened the top and slipped his hand inside and moved it back and forth like he was testing bathwater. “Everything here?”
“What he told me.”
King closed the bag. The waitress returned with the bowl of stewed pork and the coffee. She brought over a napkin and a teaspoon and a soup spoon and some milk and sugar and left it all on the table. King turned the sugar upside down over his coffee. The canister was glass with a metal spout in the middle and the sugar fell from it in a rush.
“How’s Jove?”
“He’s okay,” said Hawley. “Can’t wait to get out.”
King put down the sugar and took a gulp of coffee. It made Hawley’s teeth ache just to watch. “Wish he could watch the fight.”
“Maybe he can,” said Hawley.
“Dayroom at that prison’s only open until six. And lights out at ten. I did eighteen months there myself, back in the day.” King started in on the pork stew. Every few bites, he’d glance over Hawley’s shoulder. Hawley could tell King was looking at the girl. He wished now that he had taken the other seat.
The men discussed Jove’s chances for parole and then King started talking about the fight, how he’d trained one of the boxers and how the other owed him money. Hawley nodded but all the while the rest of him was listening for the girl. He heard the slurp of the straw as she reached the bottom of the milkshake. The click of her purse opening. The sound of paper as the waitress slid the check across the counter. The cash register ringing and shooting out its drawer. A scuffling as the girl slipped her feet back into her high heels. And then a small ting of a pin falling, and Hawley knew she was clipping the small black hat onto her head again and after that she would be gone.
The waitress came over to the booth carrying a giant plate with eight slices of pie. There was blueberry, cherry, pineapple, peach, key lime, pecan, chocolate pudding and banana cream. Each piece had a dollop of whipped cream on top. “There you go,” she said as she put down a fork and another napkin. But Ed King wasn’t looking at the pie. He was staring across the diner and his eye was twitching like crazy.
“Hey,” he called out. “Didn’t I just see you at Gus’s funeral?”
Hawley spun around. The girl was about to leave, the door already open, the black hat perched on top of her head like a little animal. Hawley felt his guts stir, a thrill mixed with dread as she let go of the handle and the glass door softly closed. She blinked twice before answering. “I’m Gus’s daughter.”
“I knew it,” said King. “All this time I’ve been trying to place you. But the hat was missing.”
The girl walked over to their table. “That’s a lot of pie,” she said.
“Have some with us,” said King.
The girl stood there for a moment, making up her mind. She glanced at Hawley and smiled. “All right.”
Hawley slid over and she sat down next to him in the booth, holding the purse in her lap. She was close, her hips spreading across the seat. King called for more forks and the waitress brought two. Then she went outside for another cigarette. Hawley was already full from the milkshakes but the girl picked up a fork and took the point off the banana cream.
“I’m sorry about Gus,” said King.
“It’s all right,” said the girl. She glanced at Hawley. “How do you two know each other?”
“This lug works for me sometimes.”
“Really.” The girl licked the edge of her fork. “Are you from around here or did you know my dad from Phoenix?”
“I know him from New York,” said King. “It’s a funny story, but I don’t think you’ll want to hear it.”
“You can tell me,” she said.