The Old Gray Wolf by James D. Doss Page B

in the mood to pick two or three upbeat breakdowns (“Foggy Mountain,” “Hamilton County,” and “Fifty-seven Chevy Pickup”—the latter selection a fast-moving piece composed by Mr. Moon himself). Its being against local ordinances to operate a motor vehicle whilst picking a banjo, Parris agreed to serve as designated driver.
    It was to be a fine, scenic drive and worthy of description, but we shall skip the breathtaking travelogue and skip ahead and over to the so-called Show Me State (MO), where something even more interesting than skull bashing with ax handles, head stuffing into disgustingly filthy spittoons, and knuckle-bruising fisticuffs is about to occur.

 
    CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    THE CONVERSATION
    While rolling westward on I-70 in Missouri, and only a few dozen miles short of Kansas City, Miss Louella Smithson pulled off the congested thoroughfare and into a busy truck stop. After filling the thirsty Bronco’s big tank, she parked by one of those huge, noisy dispensers of tasty-as-cardboard burgers, greasy red chili, gristly chicken-fried steaks, and mighty fine apple, cherry, and meringue pies “Like Your Mom Used to Bake”—and coffee strong enough to make your bloodshot eyes pop. It was the sort of eatery that hungry, sleepy, long-haul truckers fondly refer to as “a first-class choke-and-puke.” Reason enough for a chronically dyspeptic diner not to enter therein, but the hopeful bounty hunter/author had additional reasons for remaining in her aged SUV. Desperately needing someone to discuss her plans and problems with, Miss Smithson initiated a conversation with her clever twin sister, Stella—who was Ella’s very image. (The one that looked back from the Bronco’s cracked rearview mirror.)
    Miss Smithson did not kick the chat off right off the bat with an ice-breaker greeting like, “Hi, Stella—how’ve you been?” She got right to the point with: “I’m going to Granite Creek to talk to Chief of Police Parris.”
    Sis-in-the-Looking Glass: Okay, so you go chew the fat with the Colorado cop that dropped LeRoy Hooten with a can of peas—what, exactly, are you going to tell him?
    â€œWell, I intend to—”
    A customer exiting the restaurant with a red toothpick dangling from his lips and a blue Ford cap on his head grinned and winked at the young woman who was talking to herself.
    Mildly embarrassed at conversing with her reflection, Miss Smithson glanced left and right before whispering a response from the corner of her mouth: “After I’ve told him who I am and why I’m in town—which is to do some background research for my true-crime book with Chief Parris and Deputy Moon as the heroes and—”
    Hah! That’s a flat-out lie.
    â€œNo it’s not!” It’s a teensy-weensy little lily-white fib. “I have dozens of pages of confidential notes on the Hooten family’s criminal activities that the FBI would just die for, and soon as this job’s done, I plan to get started on a manuscript that I’ve been outlining for months—”
    You’re also planning on losing six pounds of ugly belly and butt fat, and have been since year before last .
    â€œOkay, Skinny Saint Stella Smithson—I’ll tell Chief Parris the whole, unvarnished truth.”
    Her mirror image had assumed a luminous halo. And what’s that, pray tell?
    â€œWell … that I’m tailing a notorious, anonymous assassin who’s probably on his way to Granite Creek and—”
    You aren’t tailing anybody, kid—you lost Cowboy back in Illinois and you couldn’t find him again with both hands if he were sitting in your lap. The image looked past Louella at the Bronco’s dirty rear window. For all you know, he could be following you.
    â€œNo, he’s not, and please don’t interrupt! I’ll be completely up front with Chief Parris and