No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch Page 2

  “Don’t worry, Merv will have it fixed in no time,” she said, looking out the window.

  “Merv?” Shaw asked.

  “He’s the mechanic. We don’t get many buses or tourists coaches through here, but he can almost fix anything if it's got an engine in it,” Callie replied. “You won’t be stuck here too long. Pity.” She was flirting with him. He was good-looking by any standard, not just by local standards.

  “Where exactly is here?” Shaw asked, trying not to sound rude. Some small towns off the interstate didn’t like visitors, while some folks especially the small business owners in the town and their staff relied on the itinerant patronage. The economy of small places lived and died off the back of visitors passing through, and Shaw was just passing through.

  “Well, welcome to Martha’s End,” Callie said theatrically. “Population six thousand and forty eight. Well, that’s what the sign says a mile down the road, but they ain’t changed it in years. People come and go. You never really know the true number. ”

  “I must have missed the sign on the way in,” Shaw replied.

  Callie touched his arm. “Well, this place is easy to miss. Martha’s End is that kind of town.”

  Shaw detected a note of sarcasm in her voice. She was young and probably had no ties or commitments, but was still here. Maybe she had grown up and spent her whole life here, and couldn’t get out. Small towns often did that to people, trapped them like quicksand. Once you’re in a small town, you can’t seem to break free and leave.

  “Downtown Martha’s End is just two miles west of here along the old highway. And if you hooked back on to the interstate and continue west for about twenty miles you’ll come to Hays. That’s a lot bigger than here. Not as big as Salina that you probably passed on the bus, but still a lot bigger than here.”

  Shaw liked her. She had a mischievous smile that matched her sense of humor.

  “I’m Ben, by the way,” Shaw extended his hand.

  Callie pocketed her order pad and took his hand.

  Her hand was cool and soft, delicate fingers, real nails not fake, and well-kept. No nail polish, just a clear resin. Tasteful.

  “I’m Callie,” she replied. “You don’t sit behind a desk do you?” Callie held Shaw’s hand in hers a moment longer, her fingers feeling the texture and shape of his palm. They were working hands, not ugly and calloused, but rough from manual labor. “You can tell a lot from a person's hands,” Callie said slowly, like in a trance, still holding Shaw’s hand, examining it.

  Yes you can, Shaw thought. She had done the reverse on him, trying to pick up clues. Very observant.

  “What kind of work do you do?” she asked.

  Shaw shrugged. “I fix things. Mainly handyman work. I’m good with my hands.”

  “I bet you are,” Callie replied, flirting some more.

  “Maybe you can read my palm, tell me my future?” Shaw said, as he pulled back his hand.

  Callie rolled her eyes. This guy’s got nice hands and a sense of humor. I like that. “Well, if you stay in Martha’s End too long you won’t have a future. Believe me,” she said, joking. “Stay right here and I’ll go get your order.”

  Shaw watched her saunter off, admiring for a brief moment the waggle of her tight butt through the fabric of her uniform. She came back momentarily with a stainless steel flask and poured the half-milk, half-cream combo into his cup then left the flask on the table and was gone again, busily taking other orders in the diner.

  Shaw sipped his coffee. It was excellent. Hot and freshly brewed, not the over-cooked swill from a pot sitting too long on the warmer plate.

  Through the window Shaw watched as a man in oil-stained overalls and a grubby red baseball cap emerged from the gloom of the workshop and hustled across the parking lot towards the bus. He carried a thick black hose in one hand and a battered toolbox in the other. The bus driver was at the rear of the bus and had the engine door up and latched back. He stared into the engine like he knew what to do.

  Must be Merv, Shaw thought as he drank his coffee and watched the man in the overalls.

  The steel-cut oats arrived and, like the coffee, were freshly made, not some reheated glug made six hours ago. Shaw finished them in minutes and polished off his third cup of coffee and on cue, Callie returned, topped him up and cleared away the bowl with a smile.

  He unzipped his rucksack and took out a worn, dog-eared book. The book bulged with old Greyhound and Amtrak boarding passes that bookmarked certain pages and important passages. It was like an eclectic travel diary, a roadmap of his past travels spelt out by boarding passes he had collected along the way by road and train. Never by air.

  Outside he could see that Merv the mechanic had finished replacing the hose on the bus and was packing up his tools. Passengers, fuelled-up on food and coffee, were already starting to drift towards the bus, anxious to get going again, worried that they would be left behind in such an off-the-beaten-track place.

  The Asian couple a few rows away were finishing up their meal and packing up a large map they had sprawled out on the table.

  Shaw wasn’t anxious or in a hurry. He didn’t want to stay forever in Martha’s End, but was enjoying the hospitality, the open space of the road and vibe of the diner that you just didn’t get from the concrete, glass and steel of the big cities. There was no one waiting with excitement for him at the bus station in Denver, holding flowers or a sign that said Shaw. No relatives, no girlfriend, just endless possibilities.

  Then everything changed.

  3

  The huge pickup truck tore across the apron of the gas station and past the bowsers, barely missing a driver who was walking back to their car after paying for the gas. The truck pulled up abruptly into a parking space outside the gas store. It was a Ford F-250, crew cab, ruby red, tinted glass, a massive square nose with chrome grill, a light bar mounted across the roof with a row of halogen lights, suspension kit and massive off-road tires.

  Shaw watched as three young men climbed out and made their way towards the diner. All three were big, bulked-up from lifting weights rather than from hard labor and an honest day's work. Frat-boy tough rather than farmhand toughened. Shaw recognized the familiar swagger the three men had. He knew the type. Every small town or large neighborhood had them. Bullies who walked, talked and acted like they owned the place. They didn’t break the rules, because they acted as though rules didn’t apply to them.

  Shaw continued to watch them through the window of the diner without staring directly at them.

  Watching without looking.

  He took a long deliberate sip of his coffee, his eyes over the rim of the cup, tracking the three men as they approached, noting every detail about them. They were maybe the same age as the waitress, mid-twenties, two-thirty to two-forty pounds. They wore boots, clean jeans, belts with big buckles, and long-sleeve durable work-shirts, more expensive cloth and a better cut than what you would find at your typical rural outfitters. The men disappeared around the front of the diner just as Callie returned from behind the counter with a fresh coffee pot in hand. She stopped at the booth where the Asian couple were packing up and placed the bill on their table, before she walked to where Shaw sat and topped up his coffee.

  “I see Merv’s fixed your bus,” she said, nodding out the window.

  Shaw glanced outside again. No sight of the men. The engine compartment cover on the bus had been closed and the passengers were beginning to form a line again, tickets in hand, the driver ready to check off names and get everyone back on board.

  Forty feet from Shaw the glass door of the diner swung open just a fraction more vigorously than required and the three young men entered, the door slamming against the backstop.

  Callie turned away from Shaw at the sound.

  She froze, coffee pot in hand.

  Shaw could see her physically tense as she stared at the three men.

  The diner was practically empty now, the breakfast rush had gone and most of the bus pa
ssengers were lining up at the coach or were making their way over towards it. Shaw and the Asian couple were the only ones left.

  Shaw could see one of the men grab a passing waitress by the elbow and say something to her. She pulled her arm away and said something, none too happy the man had grabbed her so hard. She gestured with a flick of her head towards the kitchen and walked on. The man who grabbed her nodded at his two companions and they started walking towards where Shaw sat, while the other man went around the other side of the counter and through the kitchen doors.

  “Friends of yours?” Shaw said, packing his book into the rucksack, but leaving the bus ticket on the table.

  Callie glanced down at Shaw. “No friends of mine. The Morgan brothers. Their father owns the biggest cattle ranch around here. He owns a bunch of other stuff too, some of the buildings in town and a few equipment dealerships. Even this diner. Hal the chef just leases the place.” She learned in close to Shaw, like she was pouring more coffee and whispered, “And he’s behind in the rent too. Morgan Senior sends his sons to collect it and the like.” Callie slipped the check from her order pad and placed it in front of Shaw, then walked away preferring to go the long way around back to the counter so she wouldn’t have to pass the two brothers coming towards Shaw.

  The two men approached. When they reached the Asian couple they paused, a look of disgust on their faces. “Hey Jed, didn’t these ones bomb Pearl Harbor?” one sniggered to the other.

  Jed? Figures, Shaw thought as he watched on.

  “Hell yeh. They’re all a bunch of sneaky bastards,” the other one said. They sat down at a table across from the Asian couple, who hurriedly got up and left cash on the table with their bill before moving quickly out the door.

  Shaw looked down at his bus ticket.

  Kansas City to Denver, Colorado.

  Nine hours along six hundred miles of I-70 West.

  Raised voices came from the kitchen. Then the sound of pans being thrown.

  Shaw tried not to look at the two brothers, but he could feel them looking at him. He pictured smirks on their faces, wanting him to look their direction.

  Just let it go, Shaw repeated to himself as he read the fine-print on the ticket.

  “Where’s that sweet bit of ass Callie gone to?” Jed asked loudly. Shaw could hear clearly everything they were saying. He was sure they were being deliberately loud-mouthed, almost goading him to look up and say something. But he didn’t. He just kept staring at the bus ticket.

  “I dunno,” Rory replied. “Maybe we should pay her a visit tonight, ya know, like that other girl Jessie you had last week.” They giggled and snickered some more.

  “Whatcha mean the girl I had last week? Hell, she squealed like wunna Bill’s hogs when ya were on top of her. Weren’t nothing left for me after you had done her.”

  They both burst out laughing.

  “Maybe we should pay Daisy and her mom a visit. It’s just the two of them on the ranch I hear. You can have the old bitch. She ain’t had no poke since her old man died.”

  “I ain’t doing no old bitch. Hell no. We can do the daughter together. What they call that? You on one end and me on the other. Pig on a spit like in them movies you got.”

  The laughter erupted again and Shaw could feel his anger rise.

  More commotion came from the kitchen. Raised voices had become shouting. Shaw looked up and could see Callie and the other waitresses busying themselves behind the counter and around the tables, refilling the coffee machine, swapping out the breakfast menus for lunch ones, trying their best to ignore the heated argument coming from the kitchen.

  Shaw looked out the window again. All the passengers were nearly onboard the bus, just the last few waiting.

  He looked down at his ticket again then flipped it over, contemplating it. He read the words printed on it, thick black capital letters. Not valid on other dates. Non-refundable.

  Pulling out his wallet, Shaw counted out some cash and left a ten-dollar tip. He got up and slung his rucksack over his left shoulder, not his right shoulder. Deliberate. He would pass the two Morgan brothers on his right side when he walked out.

  The kitchen doors swung open, again just a fraction more vigorously than required and the other brother, Billy, came out and stopped at the cash register. He punched a button, the drawer slid open, he flipped up the bill holders and began to empty the cash, stuffing the bills into a paper takeaway bag he found behind the counter.

  Shaw watched him.

  Just let it go.

  Shaw started towards the door, but then paused at the table where Jed and Rory Morgan were slouching. Both of them sat up a little straighter as they regarded Shaw almost like they were expecting trouble.

  Shaw looked down at them and said, “They were Korean. Not Japanese.”

  The two brothers exchanged looks. “Excuse me?” Jed said, his face scrunched up in confusion.

  Shaw sighed like it took an effort just to converse with these two idiots. “They weren’t Japanese. The two Asians you made a wise-crack about. They were Korean. It was Japan who bombed Pearl Harbor, not Korea.” Then he slid on his sunglasses and walked out of the diner into the sunshine without looking back.

  * * *

  Callie started wiping the table where Ben Shaw had sat and watched out the window as the bus pulled away in a funnel of dust, grit and fumes.

  Damn shame, she thought. He was the best-looking thing she had seen roll into town for a long time.

  She let out a deep breath as the bus crawled slowly on to the road and drove away. She looked away from the window and picked up the cash, seeing the tip left behind.

  She smiled. Good looking and generous too.

  She opened her order pad and slotted the ten-dollar bill into the plastic sleeve behind a wad of ones. The face of Alexander Hamilton was a much-welcomed addition to the many faces of George Washington that she only had as tips today. It looked like her tips for the week were going to be the only pay she was going to get. Again.

  The Morgans got their rent money. They had cleared out the till save for the coins and driven off in their pickup truck, laughing and backslapping like apes.

  Pricks.

  This was the second time this month it had happened, and she and the rest of the girls were still owed two weeks wages. Hal had come out of the kitchen all angry and cussing, and said he would make it up to them in their pay next week.

  He promised.

  Again.

  Callie finished wiping down the table then heard the front door swing open.

  “Christ, not them again,” she muttered. She turned to see who it was and her heart skipped a beat.

  4

  Shaw stood in the doorway and nodded at Callie. “Do you know a cheap motel where I can stay for a few days?” He walked in and sat down in the same booth.

  “I thought you’d gone. I saw the bus leave. I thought you were on it,” Callie replied, trying to contain her delight. She liked the look of him more the second time around. Older, maybe thirty. Quiet and unassuming. Dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a rather intense face. But there was something about him, Callie thought, his manner. How he walked into a room. How he moved. How his eyes took everything in. He had like a restrained confidence. Good looks were great. Manners were a bonus. But a man with confidence was like a magnet to her. And he had all three covered.

  “I thought I’d stay for a few days,” Shaw shrugged. “See the sights, as they say.”

  Callie smiled, “Believe me there’s nothing to see.” She stepped deliberately closer to him as if to say the sights to see are standing right in front of him.

  “Is there a decent place to stay in Martha’s End?”

  She nodded out the window. “Hang a left and the town proper is about two miles that way, if you continue along the road. We’re just on the outskirts here at the diner. There are a few motels along the road on the way into town.”

  Shaw still held the bus ticket in his hand, contemplating. He didn’
t want to bring up what had just happened in the diner, with the three men and how they had taken the money from the till. He wanted to stay clear of small town politics. He didn’t want to get involved, yet somehow it played on his mind. Something pulled at him and made him not get back on the bus.

  “But—” Callie’s voice trailed off.

  Shaw could see there was something on her mind. He could almost see the cogs inside her pretty little head turning and recalibrating.

  She leaned in again, like she had before, but closer this time.

  She smelt good. Not the sickly sweet smell of a cheap fragrance. More like spice and ocean freshness.

  “You didn’t hear this from me, but a few miles up the road, the other way, if you turn right, head east, you’ll find the McAlister ranch and I know they’re looking for ranch hands. You’ll get room and board for an honest day's work.”

  Shaw frowned. Callie seemed uneasy telling him this, but he didn’t push the point.

  “I don’t mind, as I said, I’m good with my hands.”

  Callie caught herself subconsciously twirling her hair like some churlish school-girl, her mind thinking about something else. Thinking about his hands.

  She came back to reality, “Eh, well—I know they could do with the help,” she stuttered and began straightening the menus on another table. “Daisy McAlister, that’s the daughter, it’s just her and her mother running the whole place now, and I know they’ve had trouble finding and keeping the help. Her father died a few years back and it’s a big place. It’s a lot to manage just between two women.”

  Shaw thought about it for a moment. “I’m not looking for anything long-term. It’s just for a few days then I’ll be gone.”

  The door opened and the first of the lunch-time crowd started to come in.