mechanic nodded. "Make mucho bucks off it, too."
"Damn straight."
Gordon didn't believe the last half of the story, but he had no doubt that the first part was true. Even the most outrageous exaggerations usually had some basis in fact. He looked at Brad, then stepped toward the two men. The thought that yet another deformed and stillborn infant had been born in Randall troubled him. He cleared his throat loudly.
"Excuse me," he said. "I couldn't help overhearing your story."
The old man nodded. "Yeah, it's something."
"I'd like to know when and where this happened. Could you tell me what you know about it, where you heard about it?"
The man put a ketchup soakedfrench fry in his mouth and followed it with a swallow of coffee. "I heard about it from Brian Stevens. It happened at the Randall Rest Home last night." He held up his empty cup and signaled to the waitress for more coffee.
"Last night?"
"Yeah. Brian's wife is in the nursing home. She saw it with her own eyes."
"The woman was ancient," Brad said, tapping Gordon's shoulder. "What do you expect? You think she's going to have a healthy blue-eyed bundle of joy when she's ninety goddamn years old?"
Brad was right. Such a situation could be attributed to age. Women who had children past the age of forty often had retarded babies or babies with birth defects, and that was certainly possible here.
Still, the story bothered him. He knew nothing save what he'd heard from this old man--and three-fourths of that he attributed to exaggeration-but he had a hunch, a gut feeling, that the baby's problems had been unrelated to the age of the mother.
"Come on," Brad said, picking up his case. "Let's get back to work."
"Yeah, sure," he said. He nodded toward the two men at the counter.
"Thanks."
"No problem." The old man opened a packet of sugar and poured half of it into his coffee, throwing the rest into a dirty amber ashtray. "Glad to be of service."
Gordon followed Brad back out to the truck. Behind him, he heard the mechanic mention the Beast. "I don't like this," he said. "I don't like it at all."
"I don't blame you." Brad grunted as he pulled a case of Diet Pepsi from the truck. "But I wouldn't worry about it too much if I was you.
The doctors took all those tests and they said everything's going to be okay." He smiled. "Whatever it was didn't seem to affect your baby maker none."
Gordon shook his head. "I just don't like it." He pulled down another case of Pepsi and carried it into the diner.
The kitten was .. . cute. It was the only word to describe her, much as Marina hated to admit it. Cute. Even surrounded by unkempt derelict cats in a hideous wire cage at the rear of the Humane Society building, the kitten's spirit was still undaunted; it shone through the dismal surroundings like a beacon. The kitten's light gray fur was clean and fluffy and stuck out on the sides of her flattened face like a mane. Greenish yellow owl eyes, wide and perfectly round, peered bravely, curiously forth from amidst the hair. A red mouth, filled with tiny baby teeth, emitted barely audible but heartrending peeps.
Marina cautiously stuck a finger through the bars of the cage and the little kitten bounced happily toward her on fat little feet. The kitten reached up with her two front paws and grabbed onto the finger.
She bit the tip affectionately. The bite tickled, and Marina pulled her finger back, laughing. She turned to the Humane Society attendant.
"I'll take her," she said.
The man shrugged noncommittally. "Cost you ten dollars, including shots."
"That's fine." Marina smiled as she stuck her finger once again through the wire cage. The kitten grabbed onto the finger and started biting.
She filled out the proper forms and paid the money at the front desk, trying to think of names for her new pet. She definitely didn't want to name the kitten something like Coco or Princess or any of the other sickeningly saccharine names favored by old ladies
"Damn straight."
Gordon didn't believe the last half of the story, but he had no doubt that the first part was true. Even the most outrageous exaggerations usually had some basis in fact. He looked at Brad, then stepped toward the two men. The thought that yet another deformed and stillborn infant had been born in Randall troubled him. He cleared his throat loudly.
"Excuse me," he said. "I couldn't help overhearing your story."
The old man nodded. "Yeah, it's something."
"I'd like to know when and where this happened. Could you tell me what you know about it, where you heard about it?"
The man put a ketchup soakedfrench fry in his mouth and followed it with a swallow of coffee. "I heard about it from Brian Stevens. It happened at the Randall Rest Home last night." He held up his empty cup and signaled to the waitress for more coffee.
"Last night?"
"Yeah. Brian's wife is in the nursing home. She saw it with her own eyes."
"The woman was ancient," Brad said, tapping Gordon's shoulder. "What do you expect? You think she's going to have a healthy blue-eyed bundle of joy when she's ninety goddamn years old?"
Brad was right. Such a situation could be attributed to age. Women who had children past the age of forty often had retarded babies or babies with birth defects, and that was certainly possible here.
Still, the story bothered him. He knew nothing save what he'd heard from this old man--and three-fourths of that he attributed to exaggeration-but he had a hunch, a gut feeling, that the baby's problems had been unrelated to the age of the mother.
"Come on," Brad said, picking up his case. "Let's get back to work."
"Yeah, sure," he said. He nodded toward the two men at the counter.
"Thanks."
"No problem." The old man opened a packet of sugar and poured half of it into his coffee, throwing the rest into a dirty amber ashtray. "Glad to be of service."
Gordon followed Brad back out to the truck. Behind him, he heard the mechanic mention the Beast. "I don't like this," he said. "I don't like it at all."
"I don't blame you." Brad grunted as he pulled a case of Diet Pepsi from the truck. "But I wouldn't worry about it too much if I was you.
The doctors took all those tests and they said everything's going to be okay." He smiled. "Whatever it was didn't seem to affect your baby maker none."
Gordon shook his head. "I just don't like it." He pulled down another case of Pepsi and carried it into the diner.
The kitten was .. . cute. It was the only word to describe her, much as Marina hated to admit it. Cute. Even surrounded by unkempt derelict cats in a hideous wire cage at the rear of the Humane Society building, the kitten's spirit was still undaunted; it shone through the dismal surroundings like a beacon. The kitten's light gray fur was clean and fluffy and stuck out on the sides of her flattened face like a mane. Greenish yellow owl eyes, wide and perfectly round, peered bravely, curiously forth from amidst the hair. A red mouth, filled with tiny baby teeth, emitted barely audible but heartrending peeps.
Marina cautiously stuck a finger through the bars of the cage and the little kitten bounced happily toward her on fat little feet. The kitten reached up with her two front paws and grabbed onto the finger.
She bit the tip affectionately. The bite tickled, and Marina pulled her finger back, laughing. She turned to the Humane Society attendant.
"I'll take her," she said.
The man shrugged noncommittally. "Cost you ten dollars, including shots."
"That's fine." Marina smiled as she stuck her finger once again through the wire cage. The kitten grabbed onto the finger and started biting.
She filled out the proper forms and paid the money at the front desk, trying to think of names for her new pet. She definitely didn't want to name the kitten something like Coco or Princess or any of the other sickeningly saccharine names favored by old ladies
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