"Hey, Pat did a good job." Ben nodded as he took in the Slayer's new haircut. The diner's proprietor sat on one of the stools and leaned back against the counter. "Of course, she should. She's been doing it since Ike was president." He turned and reached over the counter. Faith seized the opportunity while his back was turned.
"I, uh, I need to tell you something." She dry-washed her hands and swallowed.
Ben flipped a key ring up in the air and caught it. "Let me guess. Beth made it very clear that you cannot stay in her house while she's at work."
"Uh, yeah, but-"
"It figures." Ben stood up. "Come on, I've got something to show you." He pushed through the diner's door into the small entryway. There was a door across from them that led into an empty store space and a door to the left, opposite the door onto the street. Ben selected a key from the ring and unlocked that door. Faith looked past him and saw a stairway.
"Okay," she said, "that's not creepy at all. What's up there, an old wedding dress or an iron maiden? A portrait that looks suspiciously like me?" She folded her arms.
Ben shook his head. "Paranoia strikes deep. Just take a look." He went up the stairs. Faith shook her head and followed cautiously; if he was finally playing the psycho killer card, he was gonna come tumbling right back down those same steps. There was nothing overtly weird at the top of the stairs, however, just a narrow hallway and four doors, two on either side. Ben took a breath and held out his hands, palms out. "I know it hasn't been easy, staying with my sister-" he tried to ignore Faith's snort "-and she goes back to work tomorrow, and I'm sure she's told you that there's no way you can stay in her house by yourself." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
"True, Kreskin," Faith replied, her eyes hooded.
"Well," Ben said, "I knew Beth was going to do something like that, so I thought…" he inserted his key into the lock of the first door on the left and turned. The door swung open. He stepped back and nodded. Faith squinted at him, then, keeping him in her field of vision, looked through the door. The room had two windows looking out over the street. A well-worn oval velour armchair sat between them. A scarred occasional table stood against the far wall, graced by two candles. Through a doorway at the back of the room, she could see an iron bedstead with a mattress and a sleeping bag. Another door was closed. "That's the bathroom," Ben said. "And the water's on. It's included with the bill for the diner, so…"
"What the hell is this?" the Slayer asked.
"It's a place for you to stay."
Faith shook her head, eyes wide. "Above your diner, and you have the key? It's like a reverse Misery."
Ben held up the object in question. "This is the only key, and if you don't believe this is the only key, you could have Pete change the locks. Plus, look here, just step inside and look." Faith kept a suspicious eye on him as she edged into the room and out of arm's reach. Ben tapped on the door. "See, there's a bolt here, on the inside, you throw that, nobody's getting in here."
"Did you put this furniture in here?" Faith looked around the room, taking in its sparse, Zen-like quality.
"No, it's been up here for a while… under drop cloths," he added quickly.
Faith shot him a wary look. "Why?"
"When I first took over the diner… when I was getting it going, I stayed up here. I was working really long hours and it didn't make sense to pay for another place that I was just going to use as a bedroom, not when this was already here." Ben gestured toward the hall. "The other three were apartments, too, but they're empty now." He blinked. "You look a little-"
"Like I flipped my shit?" Faith looked out the window at the street/highway running in front of the diner. "Yeah." She snapped around to face him. "I landed here by accident when a random creep tried to feel me up while I was asleep. This doesn't vibe a whole lot different."
Ben looked stunned. "No, that's not…" He covered his mouth with a hand. "You're right, I… I'm sorry, I got over my skis." He worked at the key ring. "Here. I'm leaving this on the table. If you want to stay here for a few days, nothing changes, but if you… if you need to leave, I understand, and I'm sorry." He nodded and left the room. Faith stared at the key, then shook her head and clomped down the steps. Ben was already nowhere to be seen. She pushed open the door and stepped into the late-afternoon warmth, then turned left at the intersection. She knocked on Beth's door and went straight to the bedroom. She came back out with her bag slung over her shoulder, marched straight off the pergola without looking back, and turned right at the intersection. She walked the three blocks to the edge of town and stopped. The road dropped away steeply, then rose again. The Slayer looked at the mountains rolling away before her into the misty distance. She took a deep breath and spun on her heel.
She sat in the armchair and looked out the window, turning the key over in her fingers. The sun went down, and she watched its descent through the trees. As the last light bled from the sky, she frowned and pushed herself up out of the chair. The air was chilly on the sidewalk. She zipped up her hoodie and thrust her fists deep in the pockets. She remembered buying it, or rather, she remembered Joyce Summers buying it. She leaned back against the brick face of the building, feeling the trapped warmth through the fleece. As she stood there in the fresh shadows, a pickup truck, an old one with a crying need for a new muffler, rolled into the intersection and turned left, passing out of her vision behind the hardware store. "Somebody goes out at night," she sniffed and pushed away from the wall. She stayed in the shadows close to the building as two more trucks passed through town on the county highway. Faith reached the corner and stuck her head around. The trucks were parked at the decrepit barn building Pat had warned her against. A slow grin spread over her face.
She paused at the sidewalk's end. A real estate agent would call the building 'ramshackle' as a compliment. The tin roof sagged toward the parking lot, its slide held at bay by a half-dozen 4x4 timbers doing rough duty as support posts. The lot was covered with uneven gravel; plenty of stones the size of her fist waited to break an ankle. The rough board siding was warped and whatever paint had been slapped on it a decade ago was either peeling or gone. A dim illumination seeped from the inside, but it was hard to tell if that was because of low-wattage lighting or grimy windows. A shiny new Ford F-150, either dark blue or black, sat at the far end of the building, surrounded by ample space, as though the half-dozen other battered pickups were scared to get too close.
She shrugged and stepped off the sidewalk, avoiding the worst of the miniature boulders waiting to hobble her. As she drew closer, the thrum of growling vocals and syncopated drums leaked through the cracks in the building's exterior. Faith pushed open the door and was hit full in the face by a rancid cocktail of dirty carpet, BO, cheap spilled beer, unwashed flannel worn while changing the oil, and Axe body spray, with a lingering cat-piss back note of home-cooked meth.
The nu metal soundtrack dropped in volume as all the eyes in the place turned toward her. It bothered her a little as she realized it was an odd number of eyes, but not as much as the awareness of the way they looked at her. A faint prickling sensation ran over Faith's skin as they looked her up and down, not a thrill of fear, but of disgust. She'd seen men look at her that way before, and all eight people in the room were men. Perhaps male members of a species would be a better descriptor. A couple of them had that hard, weathered look that came upon guys of a certain lifestyle; they could have been anywhere between forty and seventy-five. Four of them were full-grown, already aware that this life wasn't much, but it was as good as they were going to get, and a couple of young men, boys really, just out of high school. They sat hunched over at tables made of giant cable spools turned on end or on benches around the wall of the large room. A wagon wheel had been turned into a chandelier by an earlier, more ambitious occupant; lights burned in three of the five sockets. Two beer cases rested on a makeshift table of a door spread across two sawhorses, hard by several open bottles of less-than-primo hootch. Two scarred pool tables occupied the middle of the room.
One of the young ones stood up from his bench. "You lost?" he said, the leer in his voice and expression clearly communicating that she was lost, whether she knew it or not. Faith eyeballed him. He wouldn't be bad looking if he had a decent haircut… and a bath… and a different shirt under that greasy flannel. The one he wore was a black T with a white line drawing of a woman's legs in a 'V' and the legend 'I always eat at the Y'. Still, the pile of empties at his booted feet made it clear that his moment as the youthful Adonis of Hicksville would be fleeting… if it lasted that long. He threw what he must have thought was a sexy grin.
Faith eyed him down the length of her nose. "I was just lookin' to shoot some pool," she said.
"Well, you're in the right place," he said, making an extravagant gesture. "We got pool tables right there."
Faith nodded, stepped into the room, crossed to the tables. Two cues lay across the faded felt; she picked one up and sighted down its length. It was surprisingly straight. She was aware of the kid stepping up close, into her space, because of course he was going to do that.
"I shoot a pretty mean stick, myself," he said, his breath so damp with generic beer Faith was sure it beaded on her cheek.
"Well," she said, resting the thick end of the cue on the ground and holding it away from her body, "If you play with your stick all the time, you should get pretty good at it."
He blinked, then laughed and turned to the other members of the Erst-Wild Bunch. "She's mouthy. Haaah." He spun back and the smile turned mean. "How about we play a game of straight eight-ball, you and me?"
"Sure, why not?" Faith pulled one of her twenties out of her pocket. "This okay?"
"Naw," he said. "Let's make it interesting."
Faith cocked one eyebrow. "Twenty bucks doesn't interest you?"
He made a show of shaking his head, the nasty grin still in place. "Naw."
Faith rolled her eyes. "Okay, so… what do you want to play for?"
He leered at her and winked, a gesture she was sure he meant to be lurid and threatening, but which just bored her to tears. "How's about your pants?"
"Excuse me?" The utter predictability of his shtick made her weary.
"Well, if you win, I get your pants." He held out his hands and did a half-turn, allowing the other denizens of the clubhouse to snicker and elbow each other in the ribs.
Faith sighed. "Well, what if I win?"
He leaned in closer, his eyes glittering. "You get to keep your pants. For now."
Faith considered this brilliant single-entendre. "Tell you what, I'm guessing the cherry pickup out front is yours." She looked around him and scanned the rest of the room. "No offense, but nobody else looks good for it." She tilted her eyes up to her challenger. "So, okay, you win, you get my pants, but… I win, I get your truck." She made a pouty mouth. "Unless you're scared."
His mouth dropped open, then one of the old drunks cough-laughed. "Rack 'em up," he snarled, and his bench buddy hustled forward. "I hope you're wearing panties."
"Huh," Faith said, "I was about to say the same thing to you." She was aware that no one laughed at her jab; in fact, the atmosphere was distinctly tense and charged.
He glared, then grabbed the other stick, slammed the cue ball onto the slate, and broke. The five ball went spinning into the corner pocket. "Solids," he hissed. He sank the two and the six, then left the four short of the pocket. Faith clicked her tongue, then sank the ten and fifteen with a combination shot. She was good and mad, and the extra adrenaline gave her shots an extra crispness. She slammed them home one after another until she stood at one end of the table, the cue ball about ten inches from the rail and the eight ball about midway between the center of the table and the far rail. It was a pretty simple angle shot, but…
"Off the end, that side rail, down here." Faith patted the corner pocket just to her right. She lined up the shot, exhaled, and smoothly flicked the stick. The room held its breath. The ball rolled straight and true, smacked into the eight ball, then spun slightly to the left. The eight ball hit the far end rail, angled to the side rail, bounced off, and rolled past the cue ball, into the designated pocket as if drawn by a magnet. When it dropped, the tension in the room went up a notch.
"Well," she said as she held out a hand. "You can just hand the keys over now."
"You c-" He took a threatening step forward and found himself brought up short by the end of the stick thrust up into the soft tissue under his jaw. He went up on tiptoe.
"You called the game, we played, you lost." Faith wiggled her free hand. The other youngster decided this was a moment to help his buddy; he launched himself from the bench toward the Slayer. Without turning her head, Faith whipped the cue stick to her right. It caught the attacker across his clavicle, breaking it cleanly. He screamed and fell to his knees. The would-be pool hustler felt the pressure under his chin lessen and started to lunge forward. The thin end of the cue caught him just under the eye. He clapped his hand to his face; his yelp of pain was cut off as the stick went back under his jaw, lifting him up as high as he could go without flying.
"Keys," Faith said. He cursed and swore, threw out every vile epithet he could think of, but she didn't blink. His lips gathered in and she held up a warning finger. "You spit at me and I'll kick you in the balls so hard you'll think you've got three Adam's apples. Keys." He looked daggers at her; she just snapped her fingers. Finally, he dug into his pocket and came out with a fob that he dropped in her hand. Faith lowered the cue and backed toward the door, her eyes on him all the way. He was the only threat. The older guys just sat there, and the other young guy had pulled himself back to the bench. Romeo, on the other hand, stood there with blood trickling down his face and hatred in his eyes.
"Now," Faith said when she reached the door, "I don't wanna be a cliche, but everybody should wait at least ten minutes before they leave the room." She waggled the cue. "I think I'll keep this for a while." She stepped outside, jammed one end of the cue into a crack in the porch and the other up under the doorknob. It would slow down anybody who decided to come after her, which would probably save their life, based on how she felt right now.
The F-150 sure did drive sweet as she pulled away, though.
Faith's eyes popped open, then her feet swung to the floor as she sat up. No brain fog today, no lack of awareness, no… She grinned at the memory of the night before. Nothing to clear the head like some no-questions-asked ass-kicking. That was what she'd missed. She went barefoot into the bathroom. It had an old-fashioned claw foot tub, but a shower head had been plumbed in. She tested the water: pressure was only so-so, but it was hot. The Slayer showered, then dried and wrapped herself in the thin towel hanging from the bar. She didn't have a comb, so she ran her fingers through her hair. Looking in the mirror, she had to admit that Pat did know how to handle those scissors.
Faith wadded up the clothes from the night before and tossed them at the foot of the bed, then grabbed a pair of floral-patterned jeans and a navy-blue T with "Luscious Jackson" written on it in white script. She jammed her feet into her Docs, then spied the key on the dresser. She slapped her hand down on the table, folded her fingers around the key, and stuffed it into her pocket as she tripped lightly down the stairs. Her first impulse had been to take the F-150 and get right the hell out of Dodge. After all, she had $120 dollars in cash and everything she owned in one bag, the definition of a simple plan. Reality had started to creep in quickly: she had no ID or license, she didn't know exactly where she was, and getting busted for GTA in the middle of nowhere would not be fun, so she had quelled that initial urge and adopted an alternate plan. She reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed open the door.
The members of the Breakfast Club sat at their usual spots at the counter and tables. They were finished with their meal and had moved on to the ceremonial cup(s) of coffee. They all turned and stared at her. Faith looked up at the clock above the counter. It was already eight-thirty. She blinked and sighed, puffing out her cheeks. One of the old guys, beefy, red-faced, and wearing a mesh snap-back feed cap, lifted his cup and tipped it in her direction. "Glad you showed up," he said. "He's been about to give hisself a stroke." Faith felt the skin around her eyes tighten, then the men all turned back to their conversations. She shook her head and went to the kitchen.
Ben looked up from scrubbing the flattop. "Have you had any breakfast?"
Faith squinted on eye. "Uh, there's not even a hot plate up there, and if there was, I wouldn't know what to do with it. That reminds me, is there any place around here that sells Pop Tarts?" She dragged the tall stool over and perched on it.
"Give me a minute." Ben turned on a burner and grabbed a blackened skillet. A few minutes later, he slid a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon onto the stainless steel shelf that ran around the kitchen. Faith picked up a fork and dug in. Ben leaned his hips back against the sink and crossed his arms, tucking his hands up under his biceps. "Saturday's a little different, most of the guys will stay a little longer, the county office is closed on the weekend, so they won't be in, and neither will the game wardens."
Faith looked up from shoveling in her food. "What about the ladies?"
He shook his head. "Nope. We'll probably have a couple of stray regulars for lunch, but we'll close after that." He tapped the sink with one hand. "I use Saturday afternoon for projects and full cleaning."
Faith bit off a chunk of bacon and fought back the urge to swoon. "You need me to help with that?"
He shook his head. "No. Your afternoon's free."
Faith made a show of looking around. "To engage in one of the many available entertainment opportunities?"
Ben ducked his head. "Well, if you go past the intersection, on east, there's a grocery store, a convenience store, and our branch of the county library."
"Is that out by the old school?" Faith hid her smile when Ben's eyes widened.
He recovered quickly. "Yeah, just before you get to it."
Faith finished the last of the breakfast. "Well, that sounds like a day's worth of fun."
Ben rubbed his knuckles against his chin. "I'm sorry about yesterday. You're right. I was way out of line." He straightened up and went out to the dining area. A chorus of jests and teasing greeted his appearance. Faith shook her head and washed her plate, then tied the bandanna around her hair and began scrubbing the Breakfast Club's dishes. The morning got very quiet for about an hour after they left, then the door rattled open and the chatter of female voices much younger than the Ladies Who Brunch filled the room. "What can I get you guys?" Ben said.
"Um, I think I'd like a chocolate shake."
"Vanilla for me."
"I'll take a root beer float."
"Coming right up." Ben appeared in the kitchen and went to the freezer. Faith drifted to the door and looked into the other room. Three girls sat at one of the tables, obviously three friends, all of them sporting denim trucker jackets, one of them with the cuffs turned back twice. One girl was taller, one was a little wider, and the entire trio so comfortable with each other and their place in the world that Faith found herself staring at them as though they were an exhibit in a zoo. Behind her, she could hear Ben preparing the order, the roar of the blender, the fizz of the root beer poured over ice cream. The tall girl ducked her head and said something. They all laughed, and then the one with her cuffs turned back, the shortest of the three, a cute girl with dark hair, big eyes, a button nose, and large, straight teeth with just the slightest gap in front, turned her head and looked straight into Faith's eyes. The Slayer felt her face flush; she was embarrassed, as though she'd been caught spying on a moment not intended for her. She ducked back from the door as Ben went past her, three glasses held between his hands. As the girls laughed and thanked him, Faith grabbed the blender jug. The sloshing of water in the sink and the hard ping of the sprayer hose almost drowned out the chatter from the other room. Faith scowled and tested the shatterproof qualities of the jug with her aggressive scouring. She wiped her face with her forearm; sweat stung her eyes.
She leaned over the sink, her hands on the rim, and closed her eyes, the musical undertone of the interactions in the other room tingling on her skin. The voices faded and the scrape of the diner's door closing ended the interlude. Faith took a deep, shaky breath, snatched the bandanna from her head, and used it to wipe the sweat from her eyes and cheeks, finishing just as the glasses clinked down beside her. She grabbed them without looking up and washed them quickly.
"You want a sandwich for lunch?" Ben asked.
"Tell you what," Faith said, not looking at him, "make a grilled cheese, and stick a couple slices of bacon in it."
"I can do that." Ben was silent for a moment. "If you don't mind wiping down the tables, I'll get started. You can lock up first… I close early on Saturdays." She nodded briefly and grabbed the pail and towel. She heard the bacon sizzle as she worked her way around the tables, all of her attention focused on the task at hand. When she finished, the Slayer went into the kitchen and poured the dirty water down the sink, then washed her hands. A grilled cheese with bacon rested on a white china plate, but Ben was nowhere to be seen. Faith pulled the kitchen stool up to the shelf and picked up the sandwich. It was exactly as good as she had hoped; when she was done she washed the plate and put it away. The kitchen was still empty.
"Well, you didn't vanish in a puff of smoke," she murmured, then winced: people could very well vanish in a puff of smoke. Still, it didn't seem likely. She went past the freezer and could see that the bolt was thrown on the back door; she shook her head and pushed it open to find herself standing atop three wooden steps leading down to ground level. In a bigger town, this would have been an alley; here there was a dumpster off to the right, a patch of raggedy grass, a dirt-and-gravel lane (which she realized would cross the street and run past Pat's shop), and beyond that a vacant lot, then a couple of houses, and… "So, that's the edge of town," she said.
"Yeah." Ben looked over his shoulder toward the wilderness, then turned back. He sat in a ratty folding lawn chair, the arms grimy, the nylon webbing faded and frayed. An amber swing-top bottle was in his right hand, which rested on his thigh. He lifted it to his lips and drank. A small white cooler sat on the ground beside the chair.
"You got one of those for me?" Faith asked.
Ben looked at the bottle in his hand. "Aren't you underage?" he asked.
"Hm, yeah." Faith put a hand to her chin. "I am… I wonder, is it legal for a minor to be doing all this? And getting paid in cash?" She gestured behind her, taking in the back of the diner.
"Well, I hope you go to law school someday. It'd be a shame to deprive the world of such a fine argumentative mind." He reached into the cooler and tossed a beer to Faith.
"Save your bullshit for the next girl." Faith sat down on the steps, unstoppered the bottle, and took a healthy swig.
"Well, good to know I'm not corrupting you," he said. "This is obviously not your first beer."
Faith laughed. "Hundred and first, maybe." She held up the bottle and looked at the label. "'Sugar Baby'." She took another drink. "It's different, I'll give it that. What is it I'm tasting?"
"Sugar pine." Ben held up his beer and turned it, watching the light play on it. "Guy that brews it uses sugar pine tips."
"Let me guess, he's just over the ridge."
Ben shook his head. "No, he's from further up north, but he comes to the farmer's market in the county seat once a month and I buy a case from him."
"Well," Faith said, tipping the bottle to her lips, "it ain't Bud Light."
"Thank God." Ben took a long pull off his beer, then looked out at the verdant scenery. "I am sorry. You were right to be mad." His leg jiggled, making the bottle bounce. "I'm closed on Sundays, so if you need to… tomorrow would be a good day."
Faith took another drink and looked off into the woods, listening to the sounds of trees and birds and bugs. "I don't know, I might, but I've found this chump who pays me in cash every day, so… I might stick around for a few days to build my stash."
Ben scratched his head. "Well, it sounds like he's dense enough to want you to stay, so…"
"Yeah," the Slayer said. "You know what they say, there's a sucker born every minute."
Ben nodded, picking at his bottle's label. "Probably, but maybe he's not a sucker… maybe he knows exactly what he's doing."
Faith snorted. "Then he'd be the first." She drained the beer and held it up. "You recycle?" Ben nodded. "Then why don't we trade? Swap me a full one for this empty." Ben shook his head, but he reached into the cooler.