waitress sighed, “It’s a shame. For all of us,” and brought Lucas a cup of coffee. “Have you decided?”
“The breakfast special. With sausages, please.”
“He’s a coward,” Henry said, “a liar.” He smiled, nodded his red head. “They’ll nail him now.”
The waitress went to the window behind the counter and called out Lucas’s order: “Sarge, the special with sausage.”
Sarge was bald, burly, red-faced.
An ex-prizefighter’s face? Placid, scarred, still dangerous.
Henry looked over at the man who was sitting at the counter and said, “What about it, Joey? How do you feel about our dear President?”
Joey spun around on the stool and smiled, as if Henry had just told a joke.
“Why should he care what I think about him? Shit, I never even vote.”
The waitress repeated, “It’s a shame.”
Joey shrugged. He was handsome and solidly built, neatly dressed in tight-fitting black slacks and a pastel shirt.
At first, Lucas thought he was in his twenties. But then he noticed the cracks in the façade: thin wrinkles across his forehead and around his eyes. The dull, dyed blackness of his slicked-back hair. The quick, furtive glimpses at himself in the mirror on the far wall.
Lucas sipped his coffee.
Henry said, “What is it, Joey? Judge not, lest ye be judged?”
Joey shrugged, glanced at Lucas as if for sympathy, and turned back to the counter.
Henry looked at Lucas again, hesitated for a moment, and then asked, “Do you have an opinion, sir?” (The “sir” sounded like an insult.)
Lucas smiled and shrugged.
He answered, matter-of-factly, “I just try to take care of my own life. That’s enough to keep me busy.”
“Right you are,” Joey replied. “That’s enough to keep anybody busy.”
Henry shook his head. “Busy? That’s all you do: keep busy?”
You want to embarrass me, don’t you, Henry?
Lucas smiled again and looked down at his coffee.
“What a way to live!” Henry said.
Lucas nodded, looked up, shrugged again.
Henry dismissed him with a slight wave of his hand.
No mercy. No compassion.
Henry changed the subject.
“What are you and Billy going to do about the factory?” he said to his companion.
“I don’t know. We’re working on it. Maybe we’ll come up with something at the meeting tomorrow.”
The other man’s voice sounded unpleasant to Lucas: harsh and flat, as if it were being forced through a strainer.
He’s careful about what he says.
The waitress brought Lucas his breakfast and refilled his coffee cup.
Sarge left the kitchen through a double-door behind the counter, poured himself a cup of coffee and came into the dining area. He sat on one of the stools, facing the booths. The waitress returned to her post behind the counter and lit a fresh cigarette from the embers of the one still in the ashtray. She drew in the smoke gratefully, as if it were fresh air.
“Clinton isn’t so bad,” Sarge said. “He’s been a pretty good President.”
Henry made no challenge.
“Could be.”
Henry picks his fights carefully.
“What about Jack Kennedy, for Chrissake?” Sarge asked. ”He wasn’t a saint. But I liked him.”
“Bad men can do good things,” Henry replied. “But I’d rather see good men do them.”
Sarge didn’t agree or disagree.
Good and bad aren’t that simple, huh, Sarge?
The other man in the booth had turned to face Sarge. He had a sullen, fine-boned, passive face that would have been more attractive on a woman.
“Ernie and I were talking about the meeting tomorrow,” Henry said.
Sarge frowned, and sipped his coffee.
“You’re wasting your time. She doesn’t care what you think.”
“Will you be there?” Ernie asked.
Sarge shook his head.
“We could use your advice,” Henry said.
“I just gave you my advice. What’re you going to do? Sign a petition?”
Sarge laughed and added, “Why bother?”
He finished his coffee, turned to the waitress and held out his cup for a refill.
There was a pause in the conversation. Lucas swallowed a forkful of eggs and sausage, and drank some coffee.
He waited.
Then he looked at Henry, who was watching him again, and asked, “I wonder if you could help me out?”
Henry’s eyes scanned Lucas’s face.
Lucas didn’t offer him any clues.
“You need directions?”
“No. I know where I am. This town is a lot like the one I grew up in.”
“Where was that?” Sarge asked.
“Shelby, Pennsylvania.”
Henry looked around suspiciously.
“Anybody ever hear of Shelby, Pennsylvania?”
“No.”
“No.”
Lucas smiled. “I guess it’s as famous as Pennington, Connecticut.”
Sarge was the only one who smiled back.
Lucas spoke slowly, deliberately pausing between the sentences: “I’ve traveled a lot. I was in sales, working out of New York City. My job kept me on the road most of the time. I retired a while back. Now I’m thinking about settling down.”
“Why not go home?” Henry asked. “To Pennsylvania?”
“I
