Serial Uncut - J. A. Konrath [21]
“That’s not even funny.”
I smiled. The poor sap really did care about me.
“I love you, Latham.”
“I love you, too. That’s why I want you to find a room somewhere and get some rest.”
“Just tell me how to get to you. I don’t want to sleep alone in some cheap hotel with threadbare sheets and a mattress with questionable stains. I want to sleep next to you in that cabin with the big stone fireplace. But first I want to rip off those cute boxer-briefs you wear and… hello? Latham?”
I squinted at my cell. No signal.
Welcome to Wisconsin.
I yawned again. Another billboard appeared.
MURRAY’S FAMOUS TRUCK STOP. FOOD. DIESEL. LODGING. TRUCK WASH. SHOWERS. MECHANIC ON DUTY. TEN MILES.
Ten miles? I could make ten miles. And maybe some food and coffee would wake me up.
I pressed the accelerator, taking the Nova up to eighty.
Murray’s here I come.
3
Taylor paused at the diner entrance, taking everything in. The restaurant was busy, the tables all full. He spotted three waitresses, plus two cooks in the kitchen. Seated were various truckers, two with hooker companions. Taylor knew the owners encouraged it, and wondered what kind of cut they got.
He saw what must have been Candi’s pimp, holding court at a corner table. Rattleskin cowboy boots, a gold belt buckle in the shape of Wisconsin, fake bling on his baseball cap. He was having a serious discussion with one of his whores. The rest of the tables were occupied by truckers. Taylor didn’t see any cops; a pimp in plain sight meant they were being paid off.
The place smelled terrific, like bacon gravy and apple pie. Taylor’s stomach grumbled. He located the emergency exit in the northeast corner, and knew there was also a back door that led into the kitchen; Taylor had walked the perimeter of the building before entering.
With no tables available, he approached the counter and took a seat there, between the storefront window and a pudgy, older guy nursing a cup of coffee. It was a good spot. He could see his rig, and also see anyone approaching it or him.
Taylor hadn’t been to Murray’s in over a year, but the printed card sticking in the laminated menu said their specialty was meatloaf.
“Meatloaf is good,” the old guy leaned over and said.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“You were looking at the card. Thought I’d be helpful.”
He examined the man, a grandfatherly type with thinning gray hair and red cheeks. Taylor wasn’t in the best of moods—one toe was barely an appetizer for him—and he was ready to tell Grandpa off. But starting a scene meant being remembered, and that wasn’t wise.
“Thank you,” Taylor managed.
“You’re welcome.”
A waitress came by, wearing ugly scuffed-up gym shoes. Taylor ordered coffee and the meatloaf. The coffee was strong, bitter. Taylor added two sugars.
“Showers are good here too,” his fat companion said.
Taylor gave him another look.
Is this guy trying to pick me up?
The man sipped his coffee and didn’t meet Taylor’s stare.
“Look, buddy. I just want to eat in peace. No offense. I’ve been on the road for a long time.”
“No offense taken,” the fat man said. He finished his coffee, then signaled the waitress for a refill. “Just telling you the showers are good. Be sure to get some quarters. They’ve got a machine, sells soap. Useful for washing off blood.”
All of Taylor’s senses went on high alert, and he felt himself flush. This guy didn’t look like a cop—Taylor could usually spot cops. He wore baggy jeans, a plaid shirt, a Timex. On the counter next to his empty cup was a baseball cap without any logo. A few days’ worth of beard graced his double chin.
No, he wasn’t law. And he wasn’t cruising him, either.
So what the hell does he want?
“What do you mean?” Taylor asked, keeping his tone neutral.
“Drop of blood on your shirt. Another spot on your collar. Some under your fingernails as well. You wiped them with ether, but it didn’t completely dissolve. Did you know that ether was first used as a surgical anesthetic back in 1842? Before that, taking a knife to a person meant screaming and thrashing around.” The man held a beefy hand