by Ramon Collins
When Tracy entered the Stagecoach Tavern she had to squint through the darkness and used smoke. Danny laid down the Sunday funnies, scratched his pot belly and asked, "Yer usual, young lady?"
"Double usual."
Danny plunked a glass on the bar, winked and gestured with his head. "It's on the guy at the end of the bar."
She glanced to her right and nodded. "Thanks."
The young man brushed a stray strand of hair out of his eyes, said "my pleasure" then went back to memorizing the head on his beer.
Danny leaned on his elbows. "It's startin' to blow up a storm. It must be spooky all alone out in the woods."
"It's spooky at night all right -- nice in the daytime." Tracy looked in the back mirror and shot a quick peek at the end of the bar. The guy stood, bent forward and slid his beer toward her.
Danny went back to visit Garfield in the funnies for the third time. The young man straddled her neighboring stool. Merle Haggard sang and wrapped the tavern in love for his momma on the jukebox.
"It does get plenty lonely during a storm -- even in town. Don't make much sense for two people to be lonely."
She grinned. "Lots of folks get lonely. I'll live."
"I know you will, but we're still married and I care about you . . ."
###
by Ramon Collins
Nelson turned his field jacket collar up. "Jeez, the desert gets cold at night."
Sergeant Snyder squirmed over on his side to ease a lower leg muscle cramp. "Sand don't hold much heat."
The sky looked dark and lonely stars glanced at each other. Occasional flashes to the east appeared like small town fireworks gone wrong. A breeze wafted in from that direction and a faint rumbling soon followed.
"Do you suppose they know we're over here, Sarge?"
"What the hell do you think?"
"I was just asking. You've been around here for seven months and I've been here three days."
"They damn well know we're here -- feel better?"
"I'd kind of like to see who's trying to kill me tonight."
"What's to see? They'll look the same after yer gone. If you don't wanna die, stop joinin' the damn army."
Snyder inched his way up the sandy knoll with his elbows, keeping his weapon out of the sand. Nelson watched, then did the same on the left side. "Keep that goddamn muzzle outta the dirt!" Snyder's hoarse whisper startled him.
"You get sand in the bore and squeeze off a round you won't have a hand left. We got two enemies out here tonight -- the fuggin' towelheads and the sand. They probably number about the same."
Nelson ran his finger around the end of the bore, then propped up a little higher on his elbows. No lights to the east now, and the only sound was the breeze as it bent clumps of dry desert grass on the knoll. Snyder snaked his way to the right. "Establish your field of fire."
The breeze stopped and silence took over. Nelson thought about home. It wasn't that long ago that he was up at this time of day to deliver his paper route. That damn Ralph Jenkins on Elm Street kept trying to stiff him on collection day. Ring the doorbell, wait awhile, then step down from the porch and watch the drapes move on the front bay window. The cheap bastard hoped he'd leave. For Chrissake -- live in a half-million dollar house and stiff the paper boy. I guess that's how people get rich.
"Nelson -- hear that?
"Hear what?"
Snyder propped himself on an elbow and looked back, over his shoulder. "I heard a rustlin' sound behind us."
He rolled over, sat up and stared into the darkness. Nelson turned halfway around then froze.
"Sarge, if you're tryin' to scare the crap out of a new man, yer doing a good job."
"Is that what I smel --"
Shots knifed through the dawn.
###
by Ramon Collins
The new waitress smiled as she approached the booth. "Would you like a menu?"
"Yes, I would," said the old gent." He took the menu and slipped it under the left side of his jacket.
She frowned. "What are you doing?"
"You just gave me a menu."
"No -- I meant to read."
"I read it once. I didn't like it." He placed the menu back on the table.
"I'll give you a minute." She leaned over the table and reached for the napkin holder. "Excuse me."
"What'd ya do -- what'd ya do?" He picked up the menu and fanned the air.
The waitress straightened, looked around, turned as red as a Mexican sunset and mumbled, "I didn't do anything."
She brushed back a loose strand of hair back and regained her composure.
"Would you like to order now?"
"I'll have ham an' eggs."
She scribbled on an order pad. "How do you like your eggs?"
"I like them very much."
"No -- how do you like them cooked?"
"I like them that way, too."
She smirked behind the pad. "I'll make them over easy."
"I'd rather you asked the cook to do it."
The waitress delivered the food then walked back and watched him from the counter. When the old man finished his breakfast and stood to leave, she rushed over. "Mister -- you forgot something."
Mike Murphy turned, looked down at a five-dollar tip on the table and winked. "Welcome to Murphy's Coffee Cup Cafe', young lady."
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