She looked across the street and I followed her gaze. The guy fueling his truck had finished, but he hadn’t moved on. He just stood there, watching us with a cell phone to his ear.
She said, “You know we’re all alone out here. All by ourselves.”
I said, “Come on. We’re still in the United States. This isn’t Beirut we’re penetrating. Let’s go check it out. Worst case, maybe we can get a souvenir.”
She exhaled and said, “Okay, but don’t push anything.”
I reached under the seat, saying, “I won’t. Don’t forget your gun.”
She whipped her head to me, saying, “What?”
I clipped in my appendix holster holding my Staccato, covered it with my shirt and said, “What, what? Boy Scout motto: Be Prepared.”
I walked to the front of the grocery store without waiting to hear her retort, but I could tell she was muttering hateful things as she situated her own weapon. I held the door until she caught up.
We went inside, finding a place that reminded me of one of those old Stuckey’s stores alongside the freeway, before Buc-ee’s came along and put them all out of business. Rows of everything from candy bars and toilet paper to jars of honey and bags of beef jerky, with a cooler in back full of beerand soda. An older lady was behind the counter manning an ancient cash register, looking at us like we were from a different planet.
In the back, next to a blanket covering a doorway, was a sign proclaiming “Rainy’s,” with an arrow pointing at the blanket. Beyond the doorway, in a corner, was a rawhide-looking guy sitting in a chair, scrolling his phone.
He looked up when we entered, then tapped something on the cell. I went to the counter and said, “Excuse me, but would you happen to know who owns that Crown Vic outside? We accidentally hit it and I’d like to talk to the owner.”
She said nothing, just looking at me with what might have been fear. I said, “Did you understand me?”
The man in the back said, “She don’t speak no English.”
I knew that was bullshit, but played along, saying, “Oh, okay, well, like I was telling her, I accidentally backed into a Crown Vic outside and I’d like to pay whoever owns it for the damage. Is that you?”
He stood up and said, “Nope. Not me. That’d be Chief, and he’s at the bar.”
I said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
I turned to Jennifer and said, “Told you this would be easy.”
She didn’t look like she thought any of this was easy. I said, “Why don’t you stay out here and get us some stuff for the road while I go talk to the guy in the bar.”
Now she looked positively alarmed, saying, “Why?”
I glanced at the guy in the chair and said, “Because it might not be easy.”
Loud enough for the mute cashier and the chair guy to hear, I said, “Get me a couple of Cokes and a bag of jerky. I’ll be right back.”
I walked to the man in the chair and said, “Chief’s in there?”
He nodded. I parted the blanket trying to see inside, but the brightness of the grocery store overwhelmed the gloom of the bar. I stepped through, gave my eyes a second to adjust, and then saw what was basically the inside of a Conex shipping container turned into a drinking establishment. I wasn’t sure if somehow the word “grill” had been lost in translation, becausethere was no sign of a kitchen or any tables to eat at even if it was brought in from outside.
There was a vintage card table in the corner, the felt stained and torn, the single bulb hanging above harshly lighting four men seated around it. Running the length of the wall was a surprisingly ornate carved wooden bar, no seats or stools, but it was complete with a brass rail at the bottom and nasty-looking spittoons. Behind it was a skinny old man with a full beard and long, white hair. The only illumination around the bar was from a few neon beer signs hanging behind him and various holes in the walls and roof letting in sunlight like little lasers.
The men at the table all stopped playing cards and just stared at me. I ignored them for a second and went up to the bar. The old bartender said, “Help you?”
I repeated my story about the Crown Vic, and one of the men at the table said, “I’m Chief.”
I turned to them, seeing a huge guy with a full head of hair and a sharp goatee stand up. To his left was a stocky man with a long ponytail and a cleft palate, giving his face a twisted appearance. On his right were the remaining two, both young guys, one with a crew cut and one wearing a beat-up John Deere trucker hat, cleaning his nails with an old-school lock-back buck knife.
I went up to the giant guy and said, “You’re Chief?”
He nodded. The one thing I didn’t want to do was have some conversation about a stolen van with three other thugs listening. I decided to separate him, starting with a little humor.
“You guys call this place Rainy’s because it’s named after someone, or because this is the only place in town that’s ever wet?”
