Two media I love: supernatural shows and gangster films. When I say supernatural, I mean more specifically the strange and unusual, not necessarily horror but often these run in the same vein. Think Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, X-Files, Twilight Zone, Kolchak: The Night Stalker, and Eerie, Indiana. We got a new “monster of the week” with every episode, and even if our heroes conquered in the end, we always felt a little on edge at the end of the show, a little weirded out, at least some of the time and despite the campiness. Think of the Buffy episode “Hush” or the X-Files episode “Home” or the Angel episode “I’ve Got you Under my Skin” from the first season (one that nobody talks about, by the by).

I was also raised on a healthy dose of gangster films because of my parents, specifically the cinematic classics featuring the Italian mafia. The Godfather movies, Goodfellas, and Casino were each played down in the basement several times over the years. And let’s admit: those flicks are pretty damn good. The writing pulls you to the next frame, which is what every good story does.

A few years ago I wrote a story called “350 Miles” (link above). It features Jack Morton, an aging “tough guy” who gets paid to do the mob’s dirty work, as he drives three dead bodies across Nebraska. He’s not necessarily a hit man, but not necessarily not a hit man, and for whatever reason he always pulls the shit jobs that nobody else is willing to do. His main link to the Boss, whoever he is, is Jimmy Doyle, who acts as Jack’s handler on behalf of the Family.

Some time later, I threw in Jack and Jimmy into another story, this time as cameos. If you read “Midnight Diner” (link below) you saw them make a cameo appearance in the story’s coda, seemingly safe from the ogre chef’s cleaver.

It was around that time, or maybe even at the moment that I threw in Jack and Jimmy in that second story, that I had an epiphany: what if somebody wrote a whole series about these two hapless tough guys who, for whatever reason yet to be revealed, always get stuck dealing with the mob’s weird situations? Which raised another, bigger question: What would the mob do in, say, an X-Files universe? How would the guys from Goodfellas handle, for example, a guy they’re supposed to whack but who won’t die? Or a mythical sewer monster who lives underneath the restaurant that acts as the front for the Family business?

Well, for one thing, likely a lot of comedy. And “350 Miles” and “Midnight Diner” are already comedic, even if only of the dark ickier kind (poor Jimmy Doyle doesn’t know what he’s eating).

So here is Jack Morton’s introduction proper, and hence the introduction to the series. This guy, along with Jimmy, lives in the city, which for some reason is seeing an influx of strange supernatural activity. The Mafia, surely, would have to figure out how to handle this. Why not delegate the two lowliest, most expendable schlubs available to take of all this alleged weirdness?

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Heading west on I-80 from Omaha ranks high in the running for the most boring drive on the face of the earth. You see road. You see corn. You see truck stops and gas stations. And then more corn. And then more road. Welcome to Nebraska, the Cornhusker State, the state whose nickname comes from its most exciting pastime because god knows it’s certainly not driving. It’s roughly 350 miles from Omaha to the I-76 junction near Big Springs, which you can take into Colorado and eventually into Denver, where you can finally see something besides corn and road. Or, you can stay on I-80 at the junction and continue through the blessed end of Nebraska and into Wyoming, where you will eventually see something besides corn and road.

Omaha - 350 miles to go

Jack Morton only needed to get to I-76, five hours away, where the three corpses wrapped up and lying beneath the custom floor of his Escalade were to be transferred to someone else. He didn’t know whom, didn’t care, didn’t want to know, and wasn’t told. It had taken years for Jimmy Doyle to convince him to finally junk the Eldorado that Jack had had since he got into the business. Jack resisted. The old Caddy had been the look Jack wanted to have, plus a trunk big enough to sleep in, along with a couple of broads if you were lucky. Jimmy always laughed, then reminded Jack that it wasn’t the sixties anymore and that he didn’t even think chicks were called broads anymore. It wasn’t until the transmission finally gave out in Reno that Jack finally walked away from the old boat, and not just figuratively. He knew what had happened right away when he heard the high-pitched hum and couldn’t get it over thirty, right there under the Reno Arch. At that moment, he knew it was fate. If a town and a car ever belonged together, it was Reno, Nevada and a late 1980s Cadillac Eldorado. He left town in a rental.

That was five years ago. Now, he was pulling out of the house in Elmwood Park in the pouring rain, where the wet work had been done. It was dawn. The conventional wisdom says that if you have to transfer contraband, you should do it at night. That’s what the gangster movies tell you. While that may be true in a big city where you need to hide the goods from nosey neighbors, if you’re going a long distance it’s better to do it during the day. The teenage kid behind the counter in Bumbfuck, Missouri won’t remember you paying for gas or buying Slim Jims if you’re just another American Joe passing through along with the rest of them in the middle of the day. Things go south, she may remember the guy who wandered in at two in the morning looking oddly refreshed, especially when she hadn’t seen another face in three hours. That goes double for staties on the night shift. The secret isn’t doing your dirty work while you’re hard to see. It’s doing it while you’re invisible.

What Jack Morton couldn’t stop thinking about was why the contraband under the floor at that particular moment was corpses. He had helped get rid of bodies before, and in that case the gangster movies are right. If you can’t outright destroy them with acid or pigs or a meat-grinder in a timely fashion, you have to dump them, and that never means more than a few miles from the job itself. But across an entire state? That was unheard of, and in Jack’s more pensive moments, he suspected it was unheard of because nobody but nobody would ever want to do it.

“Jesus, I don’t want to know,” Jack had said the night before he made the pickup. “There’s rules for a reason.”

“I know, I know,” Jimmy said, “but this, I don’t know. Maybe I need to tell someone about it, you know what I mean? It gives me the willies.”

Lincoln - 295 miles to go

Jack had never been a breakfast person, but going through the college town he felt his stomach rumble and hunger overcame him. He knew he could have driven farther, but this would be one of the last places with civilization before he made it to the transfer point on the other side of the state, and he wanted to stay blended in and out of sight every chance he got.

What he really wanted was coffee, but the last thing he needed was a colon pitstop so he drank a small glass of orange juice instead. He ordered something light from the senior menu—even though he barely met the requirement and looked ten years younger—then went back to the Escalade parked on the street while hunched over with his collar pulled up against the rain. He hit the unlock button on the fob then stopped. He would have sworn it made the sound it does when it’s already unlocked, but he didn’t bother to test it. A passing car splashed his ankles with water and he started moving again. He reached for the driver’s door and opened it, then closed it again and went around to the back.

“What the hell?” he said, but not loud enough for anyone to hear him.

The floor panel nearest to the back door was open, revealing the narrow ends of three large white canvas sacks. He reached a hand in and felt around to confirm what his eyes were already seeing: everything was as he had left it. He closed the panel and told himself that it was only a faulty latch.

“Fine, whatever,” Jack said. “Go ahead and get it off your chest. We’ve known each other long enough.”

“The boss thinks he’s cursed,” Jimmy said.

“Oh, wonderful,” Jack said, then laughed.

“No, I mean it,” Jimmy said. “Think about it. Six months ago, his wife hangs herself.”

“She was on meds for years,” Jack said. “It was a matter of time. Everyone knew that. I mean, God rest her soul, of course.”

“Let me finish,” Jimmy said. “His wife, then after that, his two kids drown in the backyard, at the same time. Then, his favorite dog is poisoned. And did you know what happened just last week?”

“No, what?” Jack said, humoring the man.

“His father gets shot and killed in a hunting accident,” Jimmy said. “Now, you think that’s all just coincidence?”

Silence lingered, then Jack sighed. “Jimmy, listen,” he said. “The wife was a long time coming. Paulie, of all people, was watching the kids. He went inside for some nose candy and forgot about them. The dog ate some chocolate after a party because he wasn’t kenneled properly. And the guy who shot his dad—accidentally, as you said—was drunk as a skunk. It’s a horrible chain of events, I’ll give you that. Very unlikely, but nothing more than coincidence.”

“Yeah, well, the boss doesn’t think so,” Jimmy said, “and he didn’t want to take any more chances.”

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Kearney - 168 miles to go

The sky grew eerie as Jack drove past the interstate town of Kearney. The rain lightened and he began to see shades of green and purple in the sky. Had Jack not spent the last five years in a region of the world known for tornados, he would have thought an alien invasion was only seconds away. He switched the radio to an AM station and within seconds was met with the discordant buzz that portended a message from the Emergency Broadcast System.

This is not a test. Seek shelter immediately. If you see a tornado, do not attempt to outrun it.

“And if you don’t see the tornado,” Jack said, “grab your ankles and kiss your ass goodbye.”

But Jack did see it, up ahead and off to the left, forming out of the wall cloud in a cone that was half invisible until the funnel met the ground and drew debris up into its vortex before spitting it out. Then he saw the overpass.

If you see a tornado, do not attempt to outrun it.

Jack saw it, then attempted to outrun it.

Self-preservation would, for the moment, trump his directive to avoid the attention of the authorities. He gunned the engine on the Escalade and it roared into life. He shot past the speed limit, then, a moment later, past the speed of the average motorist on I-80. He saw that two cars ahead of him had already pulled into a shallow ditch on either side of the road, then he shot past them like blurs.

The overpass came into focus, clear of vehicles. The twister still lingered off to the left, now larger, and Jack had no idea which way it was headed. He had already committed to his course. The Escalade approached triple digits on the speedometer and Jack saw that he would beat the tornado to the overpass with time to spare. The twister even appeared to be headed south. Jack let out his breath without knowing he had been holding it the better part of a minute.

Then, the engine stalled.

The Cadillac decelerated and coasted on the straightaway. Jack panicked, threw it in neutral, and tried to restart it. All it did was turn. He slammed on the breaks, parked it, then turned the key all the way back to the off position. Up ahead, the overpass stood out like an oasis. Jack moved his eyes to the left, where the twister now appeared to have changed course again. This time, if Jack had to put money on it, he would have bet it was headed straight for him.

He turned the key over and over with no effect. The engine was flooding. If he failed one more time, he wouldn’t be able to try it again until he and the Escalade were scrap parts somewhere in a Nebraska cornfield. He took a breath, held it for a flash, then tried one last time. The engine turned over and thundered back to life. He threw the shifter into drive and took off.

Whatever spare time he may have had was obliterated. Even if he could beat the twister into the overpass, he would have no time to brake until he was underneath. Seconds away from shelter, debris began to shoot past his grill. Wooden fencing and whole stocks of corn flew in front of him. Long blades of grass and ears of corn beat into the side of the truck.

He entered the overpass while in top gear, then hit the brake with both feet. His body slammed into the seatbelt and he let out a cry. He strained his arms to keep the wheel straight. He felt the bodies underneath the floor thump up against the panels. Overhead, the freight train of wind and rain pillaged the backcountry road that sat above him and the freeway behind him. He felt the rear end of the Escalade lift off the ground, turning the front end of the vehicle toward the center barricade. A screaming wind crashed into the back window. A moment later, the storm put the truck back down and continued on its course.

Eventually, Jack was able to pry his aching white hands from the steering wheel. He caught his face quickly in the rearview mirror and didn’t recognize it. He stifled a gasp. He turned the engine off, got out of the vehicle, and surveyed the damage. Only minor dents peppered the body. He popped the hood and tried to determine the origin of the stall, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t quite good enough to be a certified mechanic, but he was close, and he knew where to look for the usual suspects. He checked, then double checked, then checked again. Clean as a whistle. That’s how he kept it, and that’s why he got back behind the wheel again wishing more than anything that he would have told Jimmy Doyle to shove that five grand up his ass.

“What kind of chances?” Jack said.

Jimmy sighed. “Look, this didn’t come from me, alright?”

“It’s your confessional, Jimmy,” Jack said. “I really don’t want to know.” “Alright alright,” Jimmy said. “A year ago, the boss sends out a couple of heavies on this kid. He made a loan, kid didn’t pay. It was only supposed to be a couple of broken legs. Not enough dough to warrant a permanent vacation. Anyhow, things get out of hand and the kid buys a one-way ticket anyway. He’s a nobody so the boss slaps the heavies on the wrist and calls it a day. Thing is, it was the wrong kid. Turns out he’s got three older sisters.”

“The three from the job?”

“That’s right,” Jimmy says. “They find out what happened to innocent little Tommy and eventually it leads them to our fair organization. Don’t ask me how because no one knows. Boss’ll work on that part soon enough. Anyhow, the sisters put a curse on the boss because they’re all part of a coven.”

North Platte - 73 miles to go

The sky had turned back into gray and the rain lightened up an hour out of Kearney. By the time Jack reached North Platte and the home stretch of his trip, he could even see patches of blue in the distance. No sooner than he finished filling the tank and gotten back on the road, however, he began to hear thumping from the rear of the Escalade. He checked the dash but the gauges were all normal. Not even the tire pressure alert was flashing. He listened as he drove, trying to feel out the problem. It wasn’t the tires.

The more Jack thought about what had happened earlier—how that tornado had seemed to change course and head right for him, how the truck had stalled for no reason and not once in the prior five years since he had bought it brand new, how that panel had popped open on its own—the more he wanted to finish the job as soon as possible. If that meant driving with a noise from somewhere in the back that he couldn’t explain, so be it. If the Escalade kept moving, he wasn’t going to stop.

“What?” Jack said. “A coven?”

“You know,” Jimmy said, “witches.”

“Witches?” Jack said. “Unbelievable.”

“At first the boss thought the same thing,” Jimmy said. “Didn’t see them as a threat. Of course he didn’t admit to the kid because that could lead to the cops snooping around. Then, it starts with his wife. After his old man, like I said, he didn’t want to take any more chances.” “What about the guys who hit the kid?” Jack said, now with genuine interest.

“No one’s seen them in months,” Jimmy said. “They got straight.”

“You know they got straight?” Jack said.

“Well, I mean, that’s what I’m told,” Jimmy said.

“And now I’m tapped with driving three dead witches across the state,” Jack said. “You want to know more?” Jimmy said. “I’ll tell you.”

“No,” Jack said. “No, I really don’t.”

Big Springs - the end of the road

Jack pulled off the freeway and onto the road into town ahead of schedule. When he made it to the grain elevator minutes later, the van he had expected to see was the only one around. He flashed his brights and two men stepped out of either side of the van in the rain, which had started to come down heavy in the tail end of his trip, around the time that the thumping had finally stopped. Not that Jack would have been able to say as much, seeing as how he had drowned it out with the radio blasting, which he turned on somewhere around Ogallala.

Jack stayed behind the wheel of the Escalade. The two men approached the back and opened the door. He heard them open the first panel, then the second. He heard them whisper to each other, then they opened the third panel. They reached in and pulled something out, then another, then a third. Jack found himself impressed by their efficiency. Three bodies in as many seconds. There were professionals and then there were professionals.

They closed the back door and approached the driver’s side. Against protocol. All of it off by far. You stay behind the wheel so you never see each other. Jack gulped. He felt a bead of sweat run down his forehead. He wondered how quickly he could reach into the glove box, pull out the .45, and plug both these guys before they could do anything about it. No. That would make him a dead man for sure. Maybe not today, but soon. And that’s assuming the ammo was still good.

Jack reached for the button on the door and rolled down the window.

“Your Jimmy’s guy?” one of the men said.

“Yeah,” Jack said, not turning his head.

“We got a problem,” the man said, and not without a touch of aggression.

“What is that?” Jack said.

The man held up one of the white canvas bags for Jack to see.

“There’s nothing here,” the man said.

Taggert shuffles through the door in the dead pouring night. A thunderclap mutes the chime above the entrance to the greasy spoon off highway nowhere. He wags the wet off and stomps his shoes on the welcome mat. He spots McNeil at a back booth, checks the perimeter head down, strides over squelchy footsmacks on the tile with his trench coat collar up.

“Jesus,” McNeil says, dumps sugar in his coffee, shrugs a hand in disbelief, “took you long enough.”

Taggert frowns down the man, shuffles off the wet coat and throws it on the hook next to the booth with a damp slop.

“Anything good here?” Taggert says, slumps in across from McNeil with vinyl crunch. “I’m starving.”

“Don’t know,” McNeil says, “haven’t ordered yet,” he says, lifts his mug. “Coffee’s plenty hot though.” He sips from the steaming cup in exhibit and pushes the menu across the table.

“You must not a been here too long then,” Taggert says, glances down at the all-night breakfast list.

“Long enough,” McNeil says, “but what’s done is done.” He measures Taggert. “What’s the plan?”

Taggert flashes eyes up to McNeil then out to take the place in better. The only other customer slouches at the counter in thick red checkered flannel over a paper and Taggert links him to the big rig out back. One waitress flits between the counter and the kitchen. Out the kitchen flumes bacon and fried onions on the edge of burnt, fighting for reign with a fresh pot of piping crude the waitress pours up for the trucker. An undercurrent of something else, old rot or wet mold sneaks in between sizzling waves and Taggert looks back to McNeil.

“It is off the beaten path alright,” Taggert says.

“What’d I tell you?” McNeil says, then fingers through the little plastic creamer cups.

“If anything, it’s too far off the path,” Taggert says, picks up the menu. “A couple a smokeys stop in for waffles and we’re toast,” he says, looks down at the listed offerings in earnest. “You can’t blend in if there’s nowhere to blend.”

“Relax,” McNeil says, fishes out a french vanilla from the bottom. “This place has the worst rating in twenty miles,” he says, tears it open. “I looked online.”

“They tell ya that stuff on the computer now?” Taggert says, eyes up to McNeil. He shakes his head and sighs and goes on scanning the menu.

“They tell you everything on the computer,” McNeil says, dumps in the creamer and stirs it with a fork.

Taggert tosses up his head and a couple digits to catch the waitress’s eye and a strong “Coffee please” just big enough to get her attention. She nods from behind the counter and snags a clean cup from a hanging rack.

“One step at a time,” Taggert says, quiet again, face to McNeil and hands laced on the table.

McNeil leans in. “This is the next step,” he says, cradles the mug between his mitts. “Meet at the diner after midnight, staggered out over a couple hours until everyone’s here.”

Taggert glances aside and sighs, leans in to mirror McNeil. “Well we got two little piggies left, don’t we?” Taggert says. “So just—”

“Thanks for waiting,” the waitress says, a rote grin, plops down an empty cup and spills in coffee up to the brim and a splash over. “You boys wanna order something?”

Taggert looks up to her name badge, Lizzie, and lingers on her ample bosom.

“I grew up with a Lizzie,” he says, a fat smile. “Good girl. Lived down the street. Married a bum though. You married, Lizzie?”

“Can’t say I had the pleasure,” Lizzie says flat, flirt shield up.

“You got time, sweetheart,” Taggert says, holds her eyes and shines out brighter his yellow teeth.

“What’s good here?” McNeil says, takes another sip of coffee with a wince.

Taggert shoots him an evil eye for the cockblock and wipes up the drips with his napkin.

“Oh, let’s see,” Lizzie says, eyes up and away to think. “The pancakes are fine, the eggs too but not easy ‘cause this one overcooks ‘em,” she thumbs back to the kitchen, “that goes for the bacon too unless you like it black, some folks do. What else. Oatmeal is fine. Um—”

“Do you have a house special?” McNeil says, cuts her off, calls off the search for good to settle for edible.

“Well,” she says, eyes back down on the customers and hand at hip, “yes, but it’s not the best right now.”

The two men glance quick at each other and back to her.

“What is it?” Taggert says, leans toward the wall side for a better view, his orbs floating between waitress tits and face.

“Chicken fried steak and eggs,” she says, pulls the pen and pad in front of her chest. “It’s really the best thing we got but we’re out of the secret ingredient.”

“Oooh,” Taggert says. “What’s the secret ingredient?” he says with a sly grin.

“It’s secret,” Lizzie says.

“Oh come on,” Taggert says coquette, “you can tell me.”

“But it’s secret,” she says again to an idiot child.

“I’ll have the pancakes,” McNeil says, reaches for another sugar. “Dare I ask if the blueberries are ok?”

“They’re fine,” she says, shrugs. “You don’t even notice ‘em.”

“Perfect,” McNeil says, adds a nod.

“And for you?” she says, turn sighs back to Taggert.

“I’ll try that chicken fried steak,” he says. “Scrambled,” he says. “White toast.”

“Are you sure?” she says, slight brow furrow. “It’s really not that good right now,” she says, a little headshake.

“I’m feeling risky,” Taggert says, winks.

She jots the order on the pad. “American fries ok?” she says.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Taggert says.

Lizzie clocks another rote partial grin, eyes down at the pad, then goes back to the kitchen.

“Did you get a load of those?” Taggert says when she swings through the kitchen door. “Jesus Christ,” he says, “out to here.” He throws his cupped hands out in front of his chest to illustrate the capacity of Lizzie’s breasts.

“Quite charming, yes,” McNeil says without interest, sips the coffee for taste and frowns.

Taggert waves him away and looks out the window.

“Wait,” Taggert says, “we got something.”

McNeil joins him as a car turns off the highway.

“One of ours?” McNeil says.

“They’re not trooper headlights,” Taggert says, a mite relieved.

The car purrs past the diner and off into the night.

McNeil sighs and moves his face from the window, snags two more creamer cups and dumps them into his coffee.

“You gotta be ready for anything,” Taggert says, a hint of disdain. “Anything,” he says again, flashes McNeil with the snub nose tucked inside the breast of his sport coat. “You know that,” he says. He relaxes and sips from his coffee, cringes. “Christ, this is bad joe,” he says. “And I still think this is too conspicuous.”

“Bad reviews, remember?” McNeil says, taps his cup for emphasis.

Taggert nods this away. They sit in silence a beat, do their best to down the molten tar.

Taggert leans in over the table. “The next step is,” he says, “you help me disappear.” He leans back and slides a not at McNeil.

McNeil cocks his face, furrows brows. “What’s that?” McNeil says.

“I’ll have to tell you anyway when they get here,” Taggert says, leans back into his seat to nurse the coffee. “You help me die.”

McNeil’s eyes go wide. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it.

“Well, not really die,” Taggert says. “I mean ‘die’,” he says, shoots air quotes.

McNeil laughs, crosses his arms over his chest. “What, you mean fake your death?” he says, stares off out the window and shakes his head.

Taggert wags his head to mull his words, plays with his mug. “I had a job,” Taggert says at last, eyes on McNeil. “Before this one,” he says, jerks a thumb over shoulder. “The job went bad,” he says. “Kid wasn’t supposed to be there. I told him to get lost. He didn’t. He got tough, so,” he shrugs, “I got tougher. Things happen,” he says. “How’s I supposed to know he was connected?”

“Don’t say another word,” McNeil says, putts a hand up, sighs out the window and back to Taggert, leans in. “Jesus Christ, you gotta clear your conscience or something?” he says. “Do I look like a priest?”

“I’m a dead man,” Taggert says. “It don’t matter what you know.”

“Yeah but I don’t want to join you,” McNeil says, “and you don’t want to be dead for real.” He takes up his mug but sets it back down. “Does Moroni know?”

Taggert face shrugs, glances away and back to the man. “Moroni set it up,” Taggert says.

McNeil laughs, leans in. “Not a chance,” he says. “Moroni wouldn’t—”

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“Here you go, boys,” Lizzie says, clanks the plates down in front of the men. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No ma’am,” McNeil says, head down, grabs the syrup dispenser and drowns the polkadot flapjacks.

Taggert shuts his eyes and breathes in the gravy. “Mmmm this smells great, Lizzie,” he says, turns his eyes up to her tits. “What were you worried about?”

“Okay then,” Lizzie says. “More coffee?”

“No,” the men say in unison. “Waters,” McNeil adds.

Lizzie flashes a look but tucks it away then half smiles and nods before shuffling off.

Taggert cuts off a piece of the fried steak and dabs it in gravy. “Listen,” he says, leans in again, “Moroni’s got things in the works too,” he says, forks the bite into his chopper and starts chewing. “You’ll see,” he says.

McNeil cuts a bite from his stack. “I don’t want to see,” he says. “And I don’t want to know.”

Taggert crunches up his face and takes the napkin from his lap. He gags and spits the steak mess into it.

“Jesus Christ!” he says. He snatches his coffee mug and downs the last tepid swallow, then rolls his mouth around to gauge the taste. He snags the rest of McNeil’s coffee and gulps that back too.

“Whoa, whoa,” McNeil says, sets down his fork and puts his hands out to calm Taggert. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Like hell,” Taggert says. “Water!” he calls out. The trucker pivots on his stool and stares over his shoulder at the booth.

“Calm down,” McNeil says under breath. “You’re drawing attention.”

“Christ this tastes like shit,” Taggert says. “Water!” he calls louder, then looks down at his plate. “Rancid meat.”

McNeil stands up and scoots over to the counter, the waitress out of sight. “Hey can we get some—” he says as he pokes his head through the swinging doors to the kitchen, “—waters,” he says and his eyes take in something out of order but before his brain can sort it here comes Lizzie trundling out with a glass of ice water in each hand.

She follows McNeil back to the table and sets them down. “What’s the problem?” she says to Taggert in cocked head frown of mock regard.

Taggert yanks his glass up and knocks it back and down the gullet. Little streams pour around each side of his mouth. He smacks it back on the table and wipes his lips with the back of his hand and glares up at the waitress, square in the eyes.

“This meat is rotten,” he says, points to the plate where gray sauce congeals over a breaded disk of fried meat. “You gave me rotten food,” he says.

McNeil catches the fire in his eyes and chimes in. “Easy, easy, it’s not her fault.”

“But I told you you shouldn’t get it right now,” Lizzie says, blank stares down at Taggert.

Taggert looks away, gathers words and smiles. His palms rest on the table and roll into fists. “No,” he says in teacher mode, eyes up on hers. “What you said was it’s not that good right now,” he says. “That implies that it should still be edible,” he says. “It does not imply, not fucking remotely, that the chicken fried steak this morning, sir, is in fact entirely rotten,” he says. “Does it, Lizzie?”

The waitress inches away from Taggert and the first sign of alarm skews her face open and she blinks. “But,” she says, then changes tack, “I understand,” she says. “What would you like to order instead?”

Taggert chuckles and looks down, then sighs and eyes back up to her face. “I would like to speak with the cook,” he says. He reaches inside his sport coat and leaves his hand there. “Please heave your massive chest back into the kitchen and get the cook for me,” he says. “I would like a word with him.”

“He’ll just order something else,” McNeil says, then looks across to Taggert. “Right?”

“No,” Taggert says, eyes still on Lizzie, “I’ll see the cook.”

The waitress looks to McNeil and back to Taggert, freezes.

“Now!” Taggert says.

She starts and scuttles to the kitchen door.

“Calm down, man,” McNeil says, head down but eyes about and around. He spots the trucker still looking at them. “Nothing going on here, friend,” McNeil says to the flanneled man. “Go back to your paper.”

“No one feeds me rotten food,” Taggert says in eerie calm. “Nobody.”

“Easy,” McNeil says. “Just be cool now,” he says.

“Stop telling me to be cool or you’re next,” Taggert says. “I’m not fucking around here,” he says, hand still planted firmly in the inside breast pocket.

“You do what I think you’re doing and the only place you’re going is the can,” McNeil says, amps up his own nerve. “You can forget—”

“You don’t like the food?” the cook says.

McNeil and Taggert follow the bloody apron up to the massive form it wraps. Acrid copper stench spews from the red and black purple stains splayed across the chest in fresh death. The elephant arms latch on to whale wide shoulders and a croc stump neck to a broad chthonic face. McNeil summons a lost nightmare from long ago and all the verve and plans for stolen loot empty out like warm piss. And the cook’s hands are hidden in the apron and—

“Did you give me this rancid shit?” Taggert says, one hand still in his pocket and the other flipping up one edge of the plate so it splats back down on the table. “Huh?” he says, points his free hand at the slop. “Did you do that?”

The cook’s face speaks nothing. Moves nowhere. The mouth flatlines against the stretched canvas behind it. The eyes bare only an abyss, and don’t blink, and don’t hint its secrets as one ursine hand draws out a butcher’s cleaver and plants it in the top of Taggert’s head down to the nose with a moist crunch.

McNeil shudders. His mouth shakes open and eyes quake wide to gaze in the split head of Taggert, whose own jaw hangs in limp ruin as blood starts its course down into the gape.

McNeil comes to and throws his arms across the table to snag Taggert’s revolver. The cook yanks his other hand from the apron and slaps McNeil’s arms tight to the surface, then tugs the cleaver from its brain sheath and guillotines it onto McNeil’s wrists. McNeil jerks the squirting stubs up in front of his face and screams. The blade comes down again.

Jack Morton ambles through the cafe door in the damp twilight. The bell above the entrance rings his company to the handful of tired faces specked out around the place. He wipes his shoes on the welcome mat and spies Jimmy Doyle at a back booth. He nods and does the room a once over and takes a seat across from Jimmy.

Jack sits down and looks around again. “What gives?” he says, hands and shoulders up in shrug. “Where is everyone?”

“Search me,” Jimmy says and scarfs down another bite of food.

Jack frowns. “Our guys are”—glances at his watch—“two hours late and you’re eating?” he says.

Jimmy keeps at it, looks up only to confirm what he hears.

“Unbelievable,” Jack says, shakes his head, looks back over at Jimmy in full glut. “That good or something?” he says, tosses a pointer to Jimmy’s plate.

Jimmy grunts and spears some egg and steak and whirls the bite in gravy before engorging his chewing yapper more.

“Can I get you some coffee?” the waitress says, props a carafe from a crooked elbow and a dangled mug from a pinky.

Jack starts and jerks his head to the new presence at the table. “Oh,” he says, “yeah, sure,” he says. He furrows a glare at Jimmy once more and eyes back up to the waitress. “So, uh,” he says, checks her tag, “Lizzie,” he says, “what’s good here?”

“Well,” she says, a friendly grin and side nod to Jimmy, “he’s having our house special.”

“And what is that?” Jack says, half matches her grin.

“Chicken fried steak and eggs,” she says. “We just got the secret ingredient back in stock.”

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