disapproval when she greeted George and filled both cups.
Crow thanked her politely, but it was in his mind that eating alone was an alien concept in Lupine. In fact, one more weirdo like George Weathers or Herman Odegaard and the whole place would qualify as a free-range asylum.
George went on. “Lupine’s a great place. Seattle’s not that far. Some people commute. You wouldn’t be doing that, though. Being retired, like.”
Unwilling to speak through a mouthful of pancakes, Crow shook his head. George pressed on. “Are you a registered voter? In this state, I mean?”
Crow stopped chewing and swallowed a bit sooner than he meant to. “No.”
“Too bad. I was going to say if you decide to live here, I’d appreciate your vote for me for mayor.”
“There's an election soon?”
“No, no, no.” George's laugh was a bit forced. “I campaign full time. That’s just the way it is, nowadays. Truth be told, I lost the last one. Pretty bad. The one before that, too.”
He sounded so sad Crow felt obliged to offer sympathy. “Well, maybe this next one.” He pushed his empty plate aside and covertly searched for Martha. His breakfast check was rapidly becoming a Get Out Of Jail Free card.
“It can be discouraging, Mr. Crow. Losing stings, but you come out harder next time. You lose ten elections in a row, though, and it gets old. ‘Wearisome,’ my wife calls it.”
Crow coughed. “Ten?” Too intrigued to think clearly, he plunged deeper into Wonderland. “How long is the mayor's term?”
“Two years. Seems a lot longer when you’ve lost. The fifth one - or maybe it was the sixth - was the worst. Marvin Merritt came out of nowhere.”
Abandoning subtlety, Crow waved at Martha like a drowning man. “I hope he did a good job.”
“Marvin? Oh, he lost too. His wife Noreen won. Just as well; the power behind the throne, you know? Marvin was third. Don’t recall who took second.”
Martha hurried toward them, writing the check. She put it on the table and scolded George. “You talking mayor again? My customers don’t come in here to get blabbed at by a vote junkie.”
Sheepishly, George defended himself. “This was different. He’s not from here.”
She turned to Crow, apologetic. “I should have told him to scat when he showed up at your table. He can’t help himself.”
Crow rose. “No harm done. It’s hard to fault a man for working on his dream.”
“Unless you have to hear it all the time.” Martha still sounded firm, but her hand went to George’s shoulder. “I hope he wins sometime. Serve him right.”
The culprit smiled.
Walking beside Crow to the front of the restaurant, Martha said, “George is a good man. Do anything for you. Please, don’t misjudge him.”
“Making judgments is a dangerous hobby. Even the experts throw some rounds out of the black.”
That got him a sideways look from Martha. “Out of the black?”
“Sorry. Rifle range jargon. ‘In the black’ means good. You’d say ‘bull’s eye.’”
Her smile was approving. “Good way to put it. George’s sound as anyone. Except for the goofy mayor thing.”
They both looked to where George still sat, looking off into space as if composing the speech that would launch a Weathers landslide.
While Martha made change, Crow examined the tiny work station. No souvenirs or impulse-buy items marred the glossy oak counter. One poster on the wall behind it, listing churches and civic organizations. Pride of place belonged to an antique cash register. Massive and ornate, it loomed regally over the darkly efficient-looking electronics ranged beside it.
Pocketing his change, Crow realized Martha was examining him closely. He moved quickly to leave. Her contemplative words stopped him. “I bet you were a good shot.”
“I worked at it. My trade, you might say. No different than you, here.”
Crow watched her gaze changing and knew it was carrying her to a place he couldn’t know. She went on, “You’ll
Crow thanked her politely, but it was in his mind that eating alone was an alien concept in Lupine. In fact, one more weirdo like George Weathers or Herman Odegaard and the whole place would qualify as a free-range asylum.
George went on. “Lupine’s a great place. Seattle’s not that far. Some people commute. You wouldn’t be doing that, though. Being retired, like.”
Unwilling to speak through a mouthful of pancakes, Crow shook his head. George pressed on. “Are you a registered voter? In this state, I mean?”
Crow stopped chewing and swallowed a bit sooner than he meant to. “No.”
“Too bad. I was going to say if you decide to live here, I’d appreciate your vote for me for mayor.”
“There's an election soon?”
“No, no, no.” George's laugh was a bit forced. “I campaign full time. That’s just the way it is, nowadays. Truth be told, I lost the last one. Pretty bad. The one before that, too.”
He sounded so sad Crow felt obliged to offer sympathy. “Well, maybe this next one.” He pushed his empty plate aside and covertly searched for Martha. His breakfast check was rapidly becoming a Get Out Of Jail Free card.
“It can be discouraging, Mr. Crow. Losing stings, but you come out harder next time. You lose ten elections in a row, though, and it gets old. ‘Wearisome,’ my wife calls it.”
Crow coughed. “Ten?” Too intrigued to think clearly, he plunged deeper into Wonderland. “How long is the mayor's term?”
“Two years. Seems a lot longer when you’ve lost. The fifth one - or maybe it was the sixth - was the worst. Marvin Merritt came out of nowhere.”
Abandoning subtlety, Crow waved at Martha like a drowning man. “I hope he did a good job.”
“Marvin? Oh, he lost too. His wife Noreen won. Just as well; the power behind the throne, you know? Marvin was third. Don’t recall who took second.”
Martha hurried toward them, writing the check. She put it on the table and scolded George. “You talking mayor again? My customers don’t come in here to get blabbed at by a vote junkie.”
Sheepishly, George defended himself. “This was different. He’s not from here.”
She turned to Crow, apologetic. “I should have told him to scat when he showed up at your table. He can’t help himself.”
Crow rose. “No harm done. It’s hard to fault a man for working on his dream.”
“Unless you have to hear it all the time.” Martha still sounded firm, but her hand went to George’s shoulder. “I hope he wins sometime. Serve him right.”
The culprit smiled.
Walking beside Crow to the front of the restaurant, Martha said, “George is a good man. Do anything for you. Please, don’t misjudge him.”
“Making judgments is a dangerous hobby. Even the experts throw some rounds out of the black.”
That got him a sideways look from Martha. “Out of the black?”
“Sorry. Rifle range jargon. ‘In the black’ means good. You’d say ‘bull’s eye.’”
Her smile was approving. “Good way to put it. George’s sound as anyone. Except for the goofy mayor thing.”
They both looked to where George still sat, looking off into space as if composing the speech that would launch a Weathers landslide.
While Martha made change, Crow examined the tiny work station. No souvenirs or impulse-buy items marred the glossy oak counter. One poster on the wall behind it, listing churches and civic organizations. Pride of place belonged to an antique cash register. Massive and ornate, it loomed regally over the darkly efficient-looking electronics ranged beside it.
Pocketing his change, Crow realized Martha was examining him closely. He moved quickly to leave. Her contemplative words stopped him. “I bet you were a good shot.”
“I worked at it. My trade, you might say. No different than you, here.”
Crow watched her gaze changing and knew it was carrying her to a place he couldn’t know. She went on, “You’ll
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