it in a hurry. I’m off at 11:00.
He glanced up at the clock. Ten forty-five.
“Something wrong?” Sally asked.
“Just worried about a friend of mine,” said Herb. “Guess I’m worried about everybody tonight.”
He squeaked out of his chair and got ready to go.
“Think you can hold the fort around here for an hour or so, Sally?”
“Sure. That’s my job.”
“Good girl. I’ll bring you back some doughnuts.”
“Aren’t you gonna finish your coffee, sheriff?”
He looked down at the coffee. “Yeah. I guess I better have a little more. Something tells me I might need it.”
He managed to drink down half of it.
It was a heavy-duty kitchen, the old-fashioned type with zinc sinks and a mammoth grill, and chipped dishes skulking beneath the counters. Fran Hewitt had seen dozens like it in her waitressing peregrinations across the US of A.
Fran had always wanted to do something more than be a waitress, but it always seemed like the fastest and easiest way to do short-term work. Besides, it was the job she always found most available. She’d waitressed in L.A., in Denver, in New Jersey—all over the place. Wherever the men went with whom she was involved, there went Fran Hewitt, and she could rely on a waitressing job waiting for her that had a big grill, a Formica counter, greasy refrigerators, and a large industrial sink by the dishwashing contraption.
She carried the last of the dirty dishes back to that sink now, looking forward to her date with Herb Geller coming up in just a few minutes. Just a couple months ago she wouldn’t have gone out with him. Not that she hadn’t liked his rugged Western looks. No, she’d been living with Freddy Nichols then, the guy she’d come west with. Freddy was a ski instructor looking for work, but the job never really went anywhere. And so he had taken solace in lots of drugs and alcohol. Then, in July, when he’d finally come out of his stupor, he’d just up and gone, leaving her in the lurch. Now she had to keep working here until she scraped up enough money to go somewhere else.
Or got hitched up with another man.
With a sigh Fran dumped the heavy plastic box onto the sideboard by the sink. George would deal with this mess; that was his job. And she’d be able to split this joint for her date with Sheriff Herb Geller. She’d gone out with cops before, but never with a sheriff. The idea intrigued her.
Clump! went the dishes, silverware rattling.
And then she noticed the gurgling sound coming from the main sink. Fran walked over and looked down into the yawning basin.
The drain was backing up. Filthy water was welling up a good eight inches into the basin. Greasy bubbles broke the surface.
Goddammit, she thought. What a time for catastrophe to strike! Before a big date! Usually it struck a few months after a big date. She sighed and grabbed the plunger from below the sink. Gotta deal with this before it gets worse, she thought.
She was about to put the base of the plumber’s helper down over the lips of the drain, when George entered the kitchen.
“Hey, didn’t I hear something about a date with the sheriff?” George said.
“That’s right,” she said.
“You ain’t got no time to be muckin’ around with that!” George was a squat man of forty or so, big and not handsome. He grabbed the plunger and smiled at her. “Now, shoo!”
“Hey, knock yourself out!” she said, smiling with thanks for his chivalry.
The sink gurgled behind her as she left.
Fuckin’ sink!
George was a short-order cook, not a plumber, but he could fix a sink or a john as good as anyone. All it was usually was just some shit clogging up the pipes—figuratively or literally.
George attacked the sink with the plunger, wanting to beat his record at quick solutions to life’s little problems. “Simple!” That was George Ruiz’s dictum for life. You have to stop being scared of it, then just go in for the attack, and bang-o—your problem is solved.
He put the
He glanced up at the clock. Ten forty-five.
“Something wrong?” Sally asked.
“Just worried about a friend of mine,” said Herb. “Guess I’m worried about everybody tonight.”
He squeaked out of his chair and got ready to go.
“Think you can hold the fort around here for an hour or so, Sally?”
“Sure. That’s my job.”
“Good girl. I’ll bring you back some doughnuts.”
“Aren’t you gonna finish your coffee, sheriff?”
He looked down at the coffee. “Yeah. I guess I better have a little more. Something tells me I might need it.”
He managed to drink down half of it.
It was a heavy-duty kitchen, the old-fashioned type with zinc sinks and a mammoth grill, and chipped dishes skulking beneath the counters. Fran Hewitt had seen dozens like it in her waitressing peregrinations across the US of A.
Fran had always wanted to do something more than be a waitress, but it always seemed like the fastest and easiest way to do short-term work. Besides, it was the job she always found most available. She’d waitressed in L.A., in Denver, in New Jersey—all over the place. Wherever the men went with whom she was involved, there went Fran Hewitt, and she could rely on a waitressing job waiting for her that had a big grill, a Formica counter, greasy refrigerators, and a large industrial sink by the dishwashing contraption.
She carried the last of the dirty dishes back to that sink now, looking forward to her date with Herb Geller coming up in just a few minutes. Just a couple months ago she wouldn’t have gone out with him. Not that she hadn’t liked his rugged Western looks. No, she’d been living with Freddy Nichols then, the guy she’d come west with. Freddy was a ski instructor looking for work, but the job never really went anywhere. And so he had taken solace in lots of drugs and alcohol. Then, in July, when he’d finally come out of his stupor, he’d just up and gone, leaving her in the lurch. Now she had to keep working here until she scraped up enough money to go somewhere else.
Or got hitched up with another man.
With a sigh Fran dumped the heavy plastic box onto the sideboard by the sink. George would deal with this mess; that was his job. And she’d be able to split this joint for her date with Sheriff Herb Geller. She’d gone out with cops before, but never with a sheriff. The idea intrigued her.
Clump! went the dishes, silverware rattling.
And then she noticed the gurgling sound coming from the main sink. Fran walked over and looked down into the yawning basin.
The drain was backing up. Filthy water was welling up a good eight inches into the basin. Greasy bubbles broke the surface.
Goddammit, she thought. What a time for catastrophe to strike! Before a big date! Usually it struck a few months after a big date. She sighed and grabbed the plunger from below the sink. Gotta deal with this before it gets worse, she thought.
She was about to put the base of the plumber’s helper down over the lips of the drain, when George entered the kitchen.
“Hey, didn’t I hear something about a date with the sheriff?” George said.
“That’s right,” she said.
“You ain’t got no time to be muckin’ around with that!” George was a squat man of forty or so, big and not handsome. He grabbed the plunger and smiled at her. “Now, shoo!”
“Hey, knock yourself out!” she said, smiling with thanks for his chivalry.
The sink gurgled behind her as she left.
Fuckin’ sink!
George was a short-order cook, not a plumber, but he could fix a sink or a john as good as anyone. All it was usually was just some shit clogging up the pipes—figuratively or literally.
George attacked the sink with the plunger, wanting to beat his record at quick solutions to life’s little problems. “Simple!” That was George Ruiz’s dictum for life. You have to stop being scared of it, then just go in for the attack, and bang-o—your problem is solved.
He put the
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