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 My apologies for not posting a chapter last Friday, October 15.  I plain forgot.

                                            CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

                                                             Tips

3:55 p.m.

A young woman with long legs and dark eyes bounced through the front door. The lights flashed. The slump-shouldered cook bent his head down through the delivery window and signed a one-handed gesture that indicated to Joe that he was the girl's father. She flicked a word or two back with her hand, ending with her fist knocking once on her chest. Her eye caught someone else's at the counter and she smiled. Curiously, Joe leaned forward to find her line of view. She was smiling at the husky kid who'd come in after him and, to Joe's relief, sat between the farmer and himself.

She scampered off through the swinging doors into the kitchen. The husky kid beside him looked back to his hands clasped on the counter. He looked like a local. Pretty dusty. Jeans were tinged with white powder in spots where he'd gotten them wet. His shirt was stained with sweat and wrinkled around the middle, as if it had been wadded up. He wasn't tall, but he probably pumped iron; his biceps bulged his sleeves and his chest had cleavage. His neck wasn't thick, but it was bigger than most men his size. He looked strong. Then Joe noticed the black and blue knot on his forehead.

"You from here?" Joe asked.

The man bent his head down as if he didn't hear. "Talking to me?"

"Yes."

He leaned back, shook his head. "No."

"Nasty knot you got there."

"Yeah."

"Know anything about this shuttle thing they got to Barstow?" Joe asked and took a bite of his patty melt. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the kid tilting his head to the side, folding his hands and watching Joe.

And then he said: "I've gotta check into it myself, sorry."

He turned away. The young woman, now in a white waitress uniform, came from the back pinning a tiny white hat on top of her head. She and Joe's waitress–probably her mother–signed to each other. An Hispanic busboy in his early twenties, with long black hair combed straight back and a thick mustache that curled down and covered both lips, interrupted them. He pointed to a table in the center of the room and the older waitress went to it.

The young waitress came to the counter.

"Hi," the husky kid whispered. "How are you?"

A noise came from her throat that sounded like a dying siren. But he swore the deaf woman said fine. The husky kid was startled by her voice and said:

"You can talk." He smiled broadly. "Remember me?" he said to her.

She nodded and seemed wary of him, a hint of anxiety showing on her face.

"I’m not a bad guy," he said slowly and softly. Joe’s curiosity was perked; he strained to listen. The waitress just nodded, gave him a quick patronizing smile and turned to go. He reached out and grabbed her wrist. She flinched; he let go, smiling at her apologetically.

"I need some information." She didn't appear to understand. "In-for-ma-tion." The young waitress, whose name tag read Brenda, signaled for him to wait. She returned with a pad of paper and pencil.

The cook kept a watchful eye on them. In fact, it seemed to Joe that when the husky kid had come in there had been a few eyes following him. The kid wrote something on the pad. Joe failed to get a look at it. She read it, went to a drawer by the cash register and handed him a pamphlet.

Joe reached for the salt, which was conveniently set in front of the husky kid. He excused himself, moved into his territory. Joe glanced down at the pamphlet. It was a Greyhound bus schedule. So he’d been telling the truth about checking into it.

* * *

Reggie had too much to ask her. He wanted to get her somewhere away from the restaurant. The guy wolfing down the patty melt kept checking her out. Pervert or something. She was beautiful, but the guy had to be ten, fifteen years older.

On the pad, he wrote: What time do you get off? She read it. Her eyes shifted to the right, as if she were peeking around her own head at her father. She wrote something and handed it back to Reggie and grimaced. 10, it read. Reggie wrote: I'll come back. Her eyebrows danced; her head moved slightly in the direction of the cook station. Her way of warning him about her father. Reggie wrote: Where can we meet?

Before she could answer, the Hispanic kid came out of the kitchen. He strolled coolly over to the counter, let a pleasant grin raise the long hairs over his mouth. Tapping her shoulder, he said smugly: "Poppa say, 'Get to work.'" He pointed over his shoulder at her scowling father, who tossed Reggie's cold egg salad sandwich onto the stainless steel counter–under a heat lamp. Reggie got the point.

From her apron, Brenda took out a card, left it on the counter and gave the busboy a venomous stare. He returned a king snake grin. She went to the far end of the restaurant to wait on a group of four women. Reggie turned the card over. It was the alphabet, demonstrated in sign language.

The older waitress served Reggie, setting a tall glass of iced tea beside his plate. She raised her eyebrows.

"Nothing else, thanks," Reggie said.

Two seconds into peppering his egg salad sandwich, the guy next to him once again wanted to be friendly.

"So where you from?"

"Montana," he lied.

"Where ‘bouts?"

"Only one Montana."

"I meant...sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt your dinner."

"No problem."

Reggie took two bites and barely swallowed, when the guy asked him if there was any fishing around there.

"Might stock the lake, I don't know." He held up his sandwich.

"Sorry," the guy said. "Go ahead, finish."

He let him finish his sandwich and ravenously eat his fries. Right before he got his check, things changed. This chick in a pink and white jumpsuit came into the café and sat on the stool next to the tourist who was asking all the questions. And she wasn't happy. Not bad looking either. She dressed like a department store mannequin, but he could tell in the way she spoke to Mr. Friendly that she wasn't a pushover.

Reggie couldn't hear what the guy said to her when she first sat down, but she immediately lowered her voice. He caught the word ticket, then he said something like, No big deal, and pissed her off. Mr. Friendly laughed, wiped his mouth on his napkin and picked up the check to leave.

"You could've waited," she said. "I'm going to eat."

"Enjoy. I'm going to walk."

He left a fifty-cent tip and paid at the cash register. He headed for the back door. She watched him and seemed to be indecisively considering whether to stay and eat or follow him outside. Then she noticed Reggie looking at her. Reggie smiled. She reacted slowly, but she did finally smile, if it could be called that.

"He can't go far in this town," Reggie said. "Take your time. Food's good."

"Is it kosher?"

"I don't think so."

"Good."

"What's your name?" he asked, turning on his stool. "I'm Reggie."

Her mouth opened, then closed. Like a cute pink and white fish. She swallowed. Then her eyes, a Bausch & Lomb blue, sparked up like they'd been lit with a match, and her smile was startling. It was the smile of someone who had suddenly learned they'd won the lottery, but didn't want to appear boastful about it.

"Well, hello, Reggie," she said, offering her hand. "I'm...Tammy." He shook her hand. It was a perfect hand, with bright pink manicured nails. He had an urge to kiss it. Or put it in his pocket. But, as always, he restrained himself and let her have it back. Tammy scooted over to the stool next to him. She took a menu from the holder.

"He your boyfriend?" Reggie asked.

"Him? God, no. He's my stupid brother. I got a damn ticket on the way here. He passed me. Pissed me off. Didn't bother to stop and tell me where to meet him. After driving around for half an hour, he calls me on the car phone and let's me know, and then when I get here he's already eaten. He can be a dope sometimes."

Reggie snickered. "But he's friendly."

She responded with a mischievous wrinkle to her nose and whispered: "You made the same mistake everyone does. Dumb people always seem friendly."

Reggie let loose with a cackle that drew the attention of half the restaurant.

"So what's good?" she asked, sticking her nose into the menu, completely oblivious to the fact that she was moored to it. The pencil had lodged in the thick waves of her hair. The string was pulled taut from her hair to the menu.

"What's good," he repeated, deciding to let her find out about the pencil on her own. He didn't want to embarrass her. His tastebuds reminded him of his lunch. He pointed to his plate. "Egg salad sandwich."

"I don't think so. Let's see. Turkey and swiss. Wonderful." Brenda appeared from the side dining area. When she reached the counter, she turned her back to wait for an order and Tammy tried desperately to get her attention. Diners at this end of the restaurant stared at her, disturbed by her loud voice. When she still got no response, she sighed heavily, turning to Reggie.

"What, is she deaf or something?" She let go of the menu, but it stood up on its own, held in place by the string and the pencil in her hair. She looked up at it, cross-eyed. That did it. Reggie laughed uncontrollably. Tammy glanced at Brenda. "Oh, God," she whispered, "she is deaf."

* * *

Joe found the Hispanic busboy doubling as dishwasher, his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, spraying food off plates with a high-powered shower hanging from a hoist.

"Howdy," Joe said. "Workin' hard?"

"You know it, man."

"You missed some ketchup there." The busboy's courtesy grin was expected. Can't tell a pro how to do his job. "Hey, I was supposed to pick up my niece here yesterday–name's Jackie; cute girl with dark hair–and I didn't get here until today. She said she might take a shuttle to Barstow. Do you remember seeing her?"

Shrugging and shaking his head, he went back to his dishwashing, setting the rinsed plates in a green, rubber tray.

"Were you here yesterday when the shuttle made its stop?"

"Which stop? Comes three times. Eight, two and six."

"The afternoon."

"Yesterday? I was here. But I don't remember no girl or nothin'. I was workin', man."

"Who could've seen her?"

He thought a moment, sliding the full tray into a large stainless steel dishwasher. He pulled down a lever, which closed the two openings, and punched the WASH button. "Walter might. Sees everything."

"Who's Walter?"

"The owner. Walter Doone."

"The deaf cook."

The busboy sneered. "Yeah, man. He's the deaf cook. And I'm the Mexican dishwasher. So besides your problem with punctuality, what are you?"

Was he losing his touch or what? Why lately did he piss everyone off?

"I'm apologetic."

"Try insensitive, man. Try provocative."

Joe couldn't remember when he'd met such an articulate dishwasher.

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean it to sound like that. Will you help me out here? I just want to find my niece."

"I ain't lookin' for her, that's what you mean."

"You signed to the waitresses, you can help me with Walter."

"Man, that wasn't no sign language. I was fuckin' with their heads. They give me a bad time about the way I sign, you know. Walter don't. But the ol' lady, Honey, she does, and her daughter Brenda does."

"You communicate with them, though?"

"Get by."

"Will you help me?"

"Right now?"

"Make it worth your while."

He wiped his hands on his apron. "Show me how much."

Joe reached in his shirt pocket. He held up a ten dollar bill between his fingers. The busboy ran his hands through his wet greasy hair and said:

"What do interpreters get paid these days?"

"I don't know. I'll need you for about five minutes. Comes to...let's see--"

"Hundred twenty an hour," he finished. Smartass articulate math-whiz dishwasher. "Shit, that's good money." He snatched the ten out of Joe's hand. "Follow me."

* * *

The more Reggie talked to Tammy, the more of a ditz she became. Even her speech sort of tweaked, hanging up in her sinuses. She asked some dumb questions, so he thought density swam in her gene pool. Or maybe, just maybe, he misread her friendliness. He didn't have answers. Most of her questions were about the town, the city government, the trash and sewer service, the housing market, the tourist trade and general topics of commerce. She admitted to feeling very scared about starting a business in Paley, but her brother insisted it was a resort that would someday equal Palm Springs.

"What kind of business?"

"Well," she hesitated, "I can't talk about it. But you can be sure it's a great idea. Hopefully, I can make my final decision in a few days. Maybe we can have dinner one night. Where you staying?"

Reggie thought: I have to find Jackie. Tammy would want to know why I'm here, not just where I'm staying. Too much to lie about. And do I really want to buy dinner for this ditz? I'd rather have dinner with Brenda. Time isn't right to play the field.

"I'd love to, but I'm not going to be in town more than a day or two."

"What do you do?"

"Film maker."

"Oh, God, you're kidding me!" she about screamed. "You're making a movie here?"

"No," he said, wishing he had said he was looking for work. "Checking out locations."

"I thought they had people who did that kind of thing."

"I'm independent. No staff. Good excuse to travel and write it off."

She wagged a finger. "Don't become one of the martini-lunch bunch."

"I won't." He thanked her for the offer as graciously as possible, wished her well on her business venture and told her to be kind to her brother. She promised to try.

Reggie left a big tip, paid his check at the cash register, nodding his thanks at Brenda's mother. Brenda was taking an order, so he couldn't arrange a meeting place or say goodbye to her. He'd see her later. He headed to the street, tucking the bus schedule in his pocket. He stopped. The busboy was there when we said goodbye to Jackie. Maybe he saw something. Jackie meeting some scumbag in the restaurant or...something.

He walked around the side of the building to avoid Miss Ditz. As he approached the back door of the restaurant, a comforting thought came over him: his meeting with Brenda tonight was a reason not to fly back with Adams. And it was a good reason. A damn good reason.

* * *

"Tell him I'm only interested in finding my niece," Joe said, stretching his face into sincerity, raising his eyebrows in a helpless expression.

Walter Doone looked from Joe to the busboy, Renaldo, who awkwardly signed to the Igor-looking cook. Walter waved him off. Turning to Joe, in a high-pitched voice that resembled a whining puppy's, he said:

"Ah unna-san joo. Ahm ard off ear-in."

"He understands you," Renaldo interpreted, "and he's hard of hearin'."

"Chut up," Walter barked at him. He said to Joe: "Whah dishy nook night?"

He took out her picture. "Like this." Walter studied it. He nodded.

"Teffo."

"Teffo?" Joe repeated. "I'm sorry, I don't--"

"Teffo, teffo," he said, pressing his three middle knuckles to his cheek, his thumb in his ear and his pinky across the corner of his lips. "Teffo." He pointed through the tiny square window in the swinging doors.

"Oh, telephone!" Joe said, nodding, smiling. "She used the phone?"

He nodded, pointed through the window. Joe looked in that direction. On the wall beside the men's room was a pay phone. That must have been the last time she called her mother.

"How many calls did she make?" Joe asked.

"That's stretchin' it," Renaldo said under his breath.

Walter shrugged. Then he said: "Please."

"Please? Please what?"

"Pul-eeeese."

"Oh, police." Doone nodded. Joe felt like he was playing charades...sounds like...."What about the police?"

"Tahk to ah. Aht teffo."

"You hear what they–" Joe stopped, slightly embarrassed. Walter didn't respond. "Did you see her get on the shuttle?"

Walter shook his head. "Win wit please."

"She went with the police?" Walter nodded. "How many officers?"

He held up one finger. "Jaw Too-ey."

"Jaw Too-ey. Sorry, I don't get it."

"Jaw Too-ey," Walter repeated slowly.

Joe couldn't understand the name. "Earn the ten bucks," he said to Renaldo.

Renaldo said: "Paul Tooley."

Harsh sunlight flooded into the dishwasher's area. The unfriendly husky kid from the counter appeared through the back door. Right away he noticed Joe in the kitchen through the windows in the swinging doors. He came through them wearing a confused expression, eyes darting from Joe to Renaldo to Walter and back again.

"What do you want?" Renaldo asked, stepping up to the man.

"Could I, uh, talk to you a minute– privately?"

Renaldo looked at Walter. Walter nodded. Renaldo cautiously followed the man through the swinging doors.

Joe's curiosity meowed.

* * *

"Hey," Renaldo said, pointing a finger at Reggie's face. "It's you. The dude in the paper yesterday. Dug up Paley's body."

"No," Reggie said through gritted teeth.

"Killed Sam's dog, man. Pretty shitty."

"Never mind that. A friend of mine, a girl about eighteen, wavy brown hair, about this high"–Reggie flattened his hand, held it like a salute at his eyebrow–"left here yesterday on the shuttle–at least she was supposed to. Me, another guy and this girl were sitting in that back booth–remember?"

The face on this guy got strangely lost in some inner debate. His eyes shifted away–to the kitchen–back to him, down to the floor. Finally he said:

"Yeah, I remember you. You were all cryin' in the aisle about somethin'. Forgot about that."

"You forgot about what?"

"Nothin', man. So what do you want?"

"Did she get on the shuttle?"

"I was workin', man, I don't watch that shit."

Reggie didn't believe him. He was sticking his chin up at him. Good sign he needed a little machismo behind his bullshit.

In a wiley two steps, Reggie had the busboy in a headlock. He adjusted the lock around his neck and pulled tighter on his wrist, squeezing a strangled cough from him.

"I'll show you how I killed the dog," Reggie said in monotone.

"No, man! I didn't see nothin', I swear–shit, man!–I can't breathe–"

"Good–what do you know?"

Barely able to breathe, he squawked: "Police took her."

Reggie let him go, pushed him away. He didn't enjoy physical confrontation anymore, but Jackie was more important than any vow against violence. But violent situations seemed to visit him, as if it was the only environment he couldn't pollute.

"In handcuffs?" he asked the busboy.

"No." He rubbed his throat. "And I don't know nothin' else, man!"

Reggie studied him, decided he was telling the truth. "Sorry," he said.

"Fuck you, man." The busboy's eyes drifted to the doors to the kitchen.

Reggie wondered what had been going on in there; why Tammy's brother was talking to Brenda's old man. Maybe something to do with the business she was starting? Reggie figured he had no reason to care. He got what he came for.

"Go ahead," Reggie said. The busboy slunk off, malevolently looking back at Reggie over his shoulder, and pushed through the swinging doors. They whiffed twice, came to a stop.

Reggie was already out the back door.

* * *

Joe didn't miss that Renaldo returned ticked off about something. "Who was that guy?" Joe asked outright.

"Never seen him before."

"What did he want?"

"Hey, man," he said flippantly, "that ain't none of your business, okay?"

Joe had heard the scuffle. Renaldo knew him from somewhere. He was up to something, that much he knew.

Joe asked Walter if he knew him. Walter pointed to the back door and shook his head. His eyes streaked off to the twirling order wheel an instant before he answered. He knows him all right.

"If you're done," Renaldo said, "I got shit to do, man."

Joe said, "One more thing. Why did she go with Tooley?"

"I don't know, man," Renaldo shrugged, backing away. "What do mind readers get paid these days?" He batted the doors open and left the kitchen. It was a little theatrical, but it worked for him.

Joe thanked Walter.

"Ood luck," he said.

He shook Walter's hand. He was surprised by its strength. But the greasy film he left in his palm was completely expected.