Page 91 of Reno

“Good morning. This is my friend, Brock.”

Walter raised from his seat and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Brock.”

“Likewise,” Cash said, shaking his hand.

“Do you know what happened to Carmelita?” Walter asked.

“That’s why I’m here,” I said. “Something came up. She had to get a different job. She’s in San Diego now. At a little diner that specializes in pancakes and such. She’d love it if you stopped in to see her.”

He fumbled around for his phone and then glanced up. “What’s the name and address of the place? I’ll see if I can get this to work. Half the time, it won’t comply.”

I pulled a business card from my pocket and handed it to him. “It’s all right here.”

He grinned. “This is what I prefer. Something I can hold in my hand.” He looked at the card. “Abby’s Place, huh?”

“Owner’s a retired Jarhead,” I said. “Most of the waiters are vets.”

“You don’t say?”

“Pancakes are out of this world.”

“Between you and me? I don’t care much for Mexican food. Name’s Ortiz, but I was raised in Oregon, eating biscuits and gravy. Huevos rancheros is the only thing here that’s remotely close to breakfast food.”

I laughed. “You’ll love that place. Might bring a smile to her face, too.”

He put the card in the front pocket of his short-sleeved western shirt. “Don’t tell her I’m coming.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Wanna have a seat?” he asked.

“God damn it Luiz!” someone shouted from behind me. “How many times have I told you? Check the plates before you put food on them.”

The sound of breaking dishes followed. I turned toward the kitchen but saw nothing. I faced Walter. “Sounds like someone’s getting an ass-chewing.”

“Owner’s waiting tables. Been on that kid in the kitchen all morning.” He grinned. “Surprised if they’re not needing a cook by lunchtime.”

Walter was a widowed war vet. Having us join him for breakfast would make his day. I looked at Cash. “Have a seat, Brock.”

I sat down across from him and cleared my throat. “Tell me about Oregon, Walter. When you’re done, I’ll tell you about Texas.”

“Lived on the edge of a rock cliff, looking out over the ocean,” he said, beaming with pride. “It’s not like it is here. Everything is full of life, and as green as green could be. Most gorgeous country God’s ever created.”

“I’m going to stop you right there for a minute, Walter. I have a question.”

“What is it?”

“Do you think the deceased can look down on us and see us? When they’re in heaven, that is? We had this discussion earlier, and I’d like your opinion.”

“I’m sure they can. My Emily communicates with me all the time. All one has to do is open his eyes and his mind. If you do, you’ll see it and hear it. Guaranteed.”

I gave a nod. “I’ll believe you, then. Go ahead with your story.”

As he began to speak, a thunderous roar was followed by the sound of screeching tires. I craned my neck and looked out the window behind Walter. With smoke bellowing from the fender wells, a vintage Mustang fastback shot past the parking lot and sped toward the highway.

I shifted my eyes from the car to the table. “Someone’s in a hurry.”

As Walter continued his story, it dawned on me. He had no more than spoken about receiving signs from his deceased wife, and an old-school Mustang sped by. It was undoubtedly different than Ghost’s old car, but it was also very much the same. In fact, it was the exact same as Ghost’s when he started modifying it.