He passed Tom's house again on the way to Bowie's. The Scout was no longer in the driveway. For a moment this made Mort feel nervous, and then he decided it was a good sign, not a bad one - Tom must have already started his day's work. Or he might have gone to Bowie's himself - Tom was a widower, and he ate a lot of his meals at the lunch counter in the general store.
Most of the Tashmore Public Works Department was at the counter, drinking coffee and talking about the upcoming deer season, but Tom was
(dead he's dead Shooter killed him and guess whose car he used)
not among them.
'Mort Rainey!' Gerda Bowie greeted him in her usual hoarse, Bleacher Creature's shout. She was a tall woman with masses of frizzy chestnut hair and a great rounded bosom. 'Ain't seen you in a coon's age! Writing any good books lately?'
'Trying,' Mort said. 'You wouldn't make me one of your special omelettes, would you?'
'Shit, no!' Gerda said, and laughed to show she was only joking. The PW guys in their olive-drab coveralls laughed right along with her. Mort wished briefly for a great big gun like the one Dirty Harry wore under his tweed sport-coats. Boom-bang-blam, and maybe they could have a little order around here. 'Coming right up, Mort.'
'Thanks.'
When she delivered it, along with toast, coffee, and OJ, she said in a lower voice: 'I heard about your divorce. I'm sorry.'
He lifted the mug of coffee to his lips with a hand that was almost steady. 'Thanks, Gerda.'
'Are you taking care of yourself?'
'Well ... trying.'
'Because you look a little peaky.'
'It's hard work getting to sleep some nights. I guess I'm not used to the quiet yet.'
'Bullshit - it's sleeping alone you're not used to yet. But a man doesn't have to sleep alone forever, Mort, just because his woman don't know a good thing when she has it. I hope you don't mind me talking to you this way -'
'Not at all,' Mort said. But he did. He thought Gerda Bowie made a shitty Ann Landers.
