The Blob by David Bischoff

carrying a credit card in one of her hands, and she was showing it to him.
    Brian jabbed a finger back at the jail. “What do you think that is, Neiman-Marcus? They don’t take plastic.” He took the card and slipped it into her shirt pocket, relaxing a bit. “Look, I appreciate the thought. Now go home.”
    “But I need to talk to you,” Meg insisted.
    “I’m sorry about your boyfriend. I really am. But I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m in no mood for conversation.”
    He swiveled around and headed off away from her. Up ahead the neon of the Tick Tock Diner flashed invitingly, and Brian Flagg desperately wanted to put a cheeseburger into his gurgling stomach.
    He didn’t hear her following him, and it surprised him that he was disappointed she hadn’t. You’re getting soft, boyo, he told himself, and struck out at a faster pace for the Tick Tock.
    When he got there, Fran the waitress was still tending shop, cleaning up while George the short-order cook hauled out a mop and a pail to clean up the tile. They looked as if they were closed for business, but Brian had to give it a try.
    He opened the door and headed straight for the counter. “George, Franny. ¿Qué pasa?”
    Fran flashed him a crooked smile. “Hey, hotshot. We’re closed.”
    Brian flopped onto a chair and leaned his chin into his hands. “Fran, please, I’ve been dumped on all day. Gimme a break, huh?”
    Fran was cool. She liked to trade quips with him, and he enjoyed that. “Aww, what’s the matter, dear? Tough day at the office?” She returned his grin, then stuck a thumb behind her, indicating the kitchen. “Grill’s shut down. How about a sandwich?”
    He’d had his heart set on that cheeseburger, but his stomach would accept anything. “Beautiful,” he said. “I’ll just sit in one of these booths here, get outta your way, George, okay?”
    He folded into a booth, trying to let the tension go from his muscles. He closed his eyes. Shit, what a day. If he could just forget everything . . .
    The next thing he knew, he heard the door fly open, followed by the sound of footsteps on tile, and the thump of a fanny hitting the booth seat across from him.
    He opened his eyes, and there was Meg Penny.
    “Jeez,” he said. “You don’t give up.”
    “I need your help,” she said insistently.
    “What a surprise. And I thought you came out of the goodness of your heart.”
    “I came because I thought we could help each other.”
    “In three years of school you haven’t said shit to me, but now that you need my help we’re old buddies, huh.”
    She looked down. She knew he was right. She was one of the preppy chicks he’d tried to talk to before. But she’d given him the cold shoulder, then and always.
    Now she spoke in a low, almost pleading voice. “Nobody believed me about what happened tonight.”
    “What did happen?”
    “You were there. You saw!” she said.
    “All I saw was an old man with a funky hand.”
    And then Fran was there with a plateful of Lebanon-bologna-and-cheese sandwich, along with a big pile of chips and a fat dill pickle. His mouth watered at the smell of the vinegar and the mustard and the sweet scent of fresh chips as she set it down in front of him.
    “Can I get you something, hon?” she asked Meg, looking at Brian as though to say, What’s a clean-cut looker like this doing hanging out with a guy like you?
    “No, thanks,” said Meg.
    Fran shrugged and left. As Brian stuck a corner of sandwich in his mouth, Meg leaned over to him, speaking in a low and desperate voice. “That thing on his hand . . . it killed him. And it killed Paul. And whatever it is . . . it’s getting bigger. I saw it.”
    Brian chewed, giving her a long, blank stare. After he swallowed, he said, “That what you told the cops?”
    She nodded.
    “Can I ask you a personal question?”
    “Sure.”
    “I know you’re the homecoming queen type and all that . . . but are you a little strung out on something?”
    Her eyes