Spotted Duck

Before I'd gone too far north on Sunset I saw a sheriff's squad car up ahead of me, so I turned west onto Farm to Market Road 1111 until it intersected with Cavendar Street, and I cut down that way until I ran smack into the Hudspeth County Sheriff's Department.  That's when I did a sudden about-face and went into the nearest establishment, an eatery that had a big white sign with hand-painted red letters over the front door:  MEL'S SEEFOOD DINER.

There were two Hispanic men drinking coffee at the front counter, the other side of which was a young woman with dishwater blonde hair and two volleyball breasts that were putting a serious strain on a solitary button at the neckline of her sage-colored waitress uniform.  When I walked past she looked at me like I was a dessert she hadn't tasted in years, her mouth hanging open to reveal a plump, pink lump of tongue glistening with saliva.  I slipped into a booth at the end of the diner across from the bathroom door, lifting my butt over a swatch of mummified duct tape that had been used to suture a split in the red vinyl seat.  The menu I removed from the holder next to the small jukebox was ancient, the paper severely yellowed beneath its plastic binder.  I knew I couldn't order anything because I had no money, but when the waitress jetted over and said, "What can I get YOU this fine morning, hun?" I said, "Coffee."

While I waited I examined the old black-and-white photo in a beat-up metal frame hanging on the wall next to me, a picture of a large man standing behind the diner counter, the word "SEELION" stencilled across his white t-shirt.  A moment later the older version of this same man emerged from the kitchen through a swinging door, sat on a high seat behind a computer monitor, and stared at it with interest, not reading, I hoped, any breaking-news reports about an escaped prisoner.  But when the waitress delivered my coffee, Mr. SEELION was right behind her, and just as soon as she returned to her station back of the counter, he smiled and sat down across from me.

"Now, you look like man with a story to tell," he said.

"Why's that?"

"People on the run usually do."

"What makes you think I'm on the run?"

He raised slightly out of his seat and pulled his t-shirt up enough to reveal the handle of the pistol tucked into his waistband.  "Let's you and I go into the back room, sport."

"Can I finish my coffee?" I said, taking a quick sip of the stuff, which had the unmistakable flavor of cardboard.

He just nodded with his head toward the back room.

It was a storeroom with an old green radiator against the far wall.  He took a length of sisal rope, tied my hands behind my back, and secured me to the radiator.  Afterwards, he said, "I ain't got nothing against you, Mister, but the reward is 100,000 clams, and I need the bread."

He left to return to the diner, presumably to call the authorities.  I was trying to wriggle my hands out of the spiky sisal, and paying the price for my efforts, all the while examining the rear door that had huge gaps all around that let beacons of daylight in.  Suddenly, the door swung open wide, and the blonde waitress burst in holding a large kitchen knife, which she used to cut the sisal away from the radiator.  Grabbing my hands, she said, "Come on, hun, we're making tracks."

An old red Chevy pickup waited for us, rumbling like it had no muffler.  She hopped behind the wheel, saying, "Hurry it up."  I'd barely got my ass in before she took off up a back alley and then onto Cavender toward Sunset.  There must have been a big question mark on my face when I looked at her because she said, "I've been meaning to get away from that prick for years, and now seemed as good a time as any."

She took Sunset back to the freeway, turning east toward Van Horn.  "They'll think we're making for El Paso because that's where my sister, Ginny, lives," she said, "but we're heading to Marfa.  Ever seen the Marfa Lights, hun?"