agreed. "Sort of purple too, but all in all, I'm not sure I've ever seen anything so blue."
They both stared at the place in amazement as Jack parked amongst the handful of cars in front of the Blueberry, a half dozen or so vehicles that were dwarfed by the tractor-trailers, and which Jack suspected were owned by the employees of the diner. Nobody hauled electronics components in Ford station wagons as far as he knew.
"What was it that guy said yesterday?" Molly asked him as she got out of the Jeep. "The guy with the crewcut?"
"That we should talk to Max, because he knows everyone."
"No, no," Molly said, waving the words away as if they were annoying gnats. "I mean about breakfast. What did he say was good here?"
Surprised, Jack glanced at her. "Where did that girl go? The one who woke me up because she was so freaked about that lady trucker getting killed?"
A hurt look flickered across Molly's features. "Don't do that, even kidding. I know why we're here, Jack, but we also have to eat breakfast."
"Hey," he said softly, slipping an arm around her. "None of this is fun. I was teasing, yeah, but I'm also glad you can think about something else. And it was French toast, I think. The guy with the crew said the French toast was good."
Jack pulled the door open for her. Molly surprised him with a kiss on the cheek and then grabbed his hand and they went into the Blueberry Diner together.
Jack was more than a little relieved to find that whatever mad diner genius had lathered the exterior of the building in gaudy berry color had been stopped before reaching the interior. Inside, the Blueberry was mundane, a simple arrangement of counter, stools and booths that had been an unchanged formula for fifty years or more. Four of the dozen or so booths were occupied, as were about half the stools. Normally Jack would have opted for a booth but aside from breakfast, their purpose in coming here was to meet Max, the counterman mentioned by the jarhead the night before.
As they crossed to the counter and slid onto a pair of stools, heads turned. Jack knew that he wasn't the only person who found Molly attractive. Her hair alone, that wild red mane that she could barely control, was enough to draw stares. But the attention they were getting just then was for both of them, not just her, and he supposed it was natural enough for the people in the diner to be curious. He felt as though he was wearing a sign around his neck that said NOT A TRUCK DRIVER.
Once they had settled in at the counter and picked up menus, the truckers all went back to their breakfast and conversation. Jack glanced at Molly and gave her a smile with just the corner of his mouth.
A waitress in blue jeans and a white blouse hustled a tray to one of the booths. She was a thin woman who looked almost too frail to balance such a heavy tray. Over her clothes was draped an apron the same screaming purple-blue as the diner's outer walls, but someone had taken it one step further. On the front of the apron, inside a white border, was a big blueberry with a face and arms and legs and a lunatic's grin. Jack thought it looked like an octopus — like an old cartoon character called Squiddly Diddly, in fact — but he supposed it must be a blueberry.
The waitress slid dishes of Eggs Benedict and sausages and pancakes onto the table, along with another plate piled high with an unrecognizable heap of food he suspected must be what the menu identified as the "trashcan special." She called everyone "hon'" as though she had been brought in from Hollywood's central casting to play the gum-snapping, tough gal local waitress. What ruined that impression was the fact that she was not visibly chewing gum, as well as the light in her eyes and the laugh that seemed about to burst out at any moment, as though she knew all her "hons" and "sweeties" were expected of her, and she was in on the joke.
Down along the counter, a grizzled looking fiftyish guy was pouring coffee for a sad-eyed,
They both stared at the place in amazement as Jack parked amongst the handful of cars in front of the Blueberry, a half dozen or so vehicles that were dwarfed by the tractor-trailers, and which Jack suspected were owned by the employees of the diner. Nobody hauled electronics components in Ford station wagons as far as he knew.
"What was it that guy said yesterday?" Molly asked him as she got out of the Jeep. "The guy with the crewcut?"
"That we should talk to Max, because he knows everyone."
"No, no," Molly said, waving the words away as if they were annoying gnats. "I mean about breakfast. What did he say was good here?"
Surprised, Jack glanced at her. "Where did that girl go? The one who woke me up because she was so freaked about that lady trucker getting killed?"
A hurt look flickered across Molly's features. "Don't do that, even kidding. I know why we're here, Jack, but we also have to eat breakfast."
"Hey," he said softly, slipping an arm around her. "None of this is fun. I was teasing, yeah, but I'm also glad you can think about something else. And it was French toast, I think. The guy with the crew said the French toast was good."
Jack pulled the door open for her. Molly surprised him with a kiss on the cheek and then grabbed his hand and they went into the Blueberry Diner together.
Jack was more than a little relieved to find that whatever mad diner genius had lathered the exterior of the building in gaudy berry color had been stopped before reaching the interior. Inside, the Blueberry was mundane, a simple arrangement of counter, stools and booths that had been an unchanged formula for fifty years or more. Four of the dozen or so booths were occupied, as were about half the stools. Normally Jack would have opted for a booth but aside from breakfast, their purpose in coming here was to meet Max, the counterman mentioned by the jarhead the night before.
As they crossed to the counter and slid onto a pair of stools, heads turned. Jack knew that he wasn't the only person who found Molly attractive. Her hair alone, that wild red mane that she could barely control, was enough to draw stares. But the attention they were getting just then was for both of them, not just her, and he supposed it was natural enough for the people in the diner to be curious. He felt as though he was wearing a sign around his neck that said NOT A TRUCK DRIVER.
Once they had settled in at the counter and picked up menus, the truckers all went back to their breakfast and conversation. Jack glanced at Molly and gave her a smile with just the corner of his mouth.
A waitress in blue jeans and a white blouse hustled a tray to one of the booths. She was a thin woman who looked almost too frail to balance such a heavy tray. Over her clothes was draped an apron the same screaming purple-blue as the diner's outer walls, but someone had taken it one step further. On the front of the apron, inside a white border, was a big blueberry with a face and arms and legs and a lunatic's grin. Jack thought it looked like an octopus — like an old cartoon character called Squiddly Diddly, in fact — but he supposed it must be a blueberry.
The waitress slid dishes of Eggs Benedict and sausages and pancakes onto the table, along with another plate piled high with an unrecognizable heap of food he suspected must be what the menu identified as the "trashcan special." She called everyone "hon'" as though she had been brought in from Hollywood's central casting to play the gum-snapping, tough gal local waitress. What ruined that impression was the fact that she was not visibly chewing gum, as well as the light in her eyes and the laugh that seemed about to burst out at any moment, as though she knew all her "hons" and "sweeties" were expected of her, and she was in on the joke.
Down along the counter, a grizzled looking fiftyish guy was pouring coffee for a sad-eyed,
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