Free Fire - C. J. Box [27]
A sheen of frost covered the windshields of parked cars and stiffened the dying grass between the cracks in the sidewalk. His breath billowed as he walked down Madison. There were no cars on the streets except those parked haphazardly around Bear Trap Pancake House. Locals, most of them. He bought a newspaperfrom the stand and went in.
He sat alone in a booth with his back to the front door and surveyed the crowd. Men wore cowboy hats or caps proclaimingtheir allegiance to fly shops or heavy equipment. They were sullen, waking up, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. In contrast were the four bustling waitresses who seemed unnaturallycheery. McCann figured it out: the staff was happy becausetoday would be their last day for the season. Like most businesses in West, the Bear Trap would close until December when there was several feet of snow and the snowmobilers would be back.
A middle-aged waitress with a name tag that read “Marge” practically skipped across the restaurant toward him with a pot of coffee. McCann pushed his empty mug across the table towardher.
As she began to pour, she looked up and her eyes locked on his, and she froze.
“Yes, please,” he said, gesturing toward his cup.
Her face hardened and she righted the pot without pouring a drop. Then she turned on her heel and strode into the kitchen.
A few moments later, McCann saw the face of the cook above the bat wing doors, then the face of the owner of the Bear Trap. The lawyer nodded toward the owner, who acknowledged him cautiously, then returned quickly to the kitchen.
A young waitress (nameplate: Tina) had apparently not witnessedMarge’s reaction and came over with a pot.
“No,” Marge said out the side of her mouth from two tables away.
Tina stopped, unsure of what to do.
“No,” Marge said again.
Tina shrugged apologetically at McCann and retreated to the far end of the restaurant to take care of other tables.
McCann sat quietly for twenty minutes as customers came in and placed their orders. Nothing was said to him. He was simply being frozen out, as if he didn’t exist. His coffee cup remainedempty.
As Marge passed with another fresh pot, McCann reached out and tugged on her apron and she jumped back as if he’d goosed her.
“I’d like breakfast,” he said.
“In hell,” she answered, swinging her large hips away from him.
McCann stood up angrily and reached for his coat. The .38 thumped against his side and for a second he considered reachingfor it. Several patrons watched him furtively between forkfulsof pancakes. Most didn’t even look up.
He slammed the door so hard that the bells on it swung and hit the glass, punctuating his exit. He stormed halfway across the street before stopping and turning around. Marge glared back at him from behind the window, her face distorted by condensationon the glass. His eyes slipped from Marge to the rust-tingedFOR SALE sign on the door of the building. Every place in West, it seemed, was always for sale. That went with the transientnature of the town.
But it gave him an idea.
Maybe he could buy the goddamned place and fire Marge. He could buy Rocky’s too. He could own the whole fucking town; then they’d have to respect him.
Mccann couldn’t feel his feet as he walked back towardhis office to make a call. His insides boiled, and he kept his mouth clamped shut so tightly that his jaw ached. His brief revenge fantasy of buying the town faded quickly. Despite his hunger for reprisal, the last thing he wanted was to stay a minute longer in this place than he had to.
He looked at his wristwatch, calculating the time difference. He needed to make a call. As he began to open the door to his office, he changed his mind. Who knew who might be listening on his line?
At a pay phone outside the supermarket he dropped in coins and dialed. It was answered on the third ring and he gave his accountnumber from memory. The receptionist transferred