Richard watched Lamar get out of the car, stop, and so casually stretch himself as he pulled on a jean jacket over the .45. Then he put his arm around Ruta Beth, and just as casually as a couple of high school kids on a date, the two of them sauntered into Denny's.
Richard sat back, trying to relax. He felt absurd in the getup. And he was bored. But he couldn't get out of the car, because in the open, the fraudulence of his disguise would be obvious. He looked over at O’Dell, who grinned at him with empty, happy eyes. Looking into O’Dell's eyes could make you insane: they were guileless and remote, far removed from concepts such as cause and effect or right and wrong. He was simply a gigantic baby, who needed to be fed and wiped. Lamar brushed his teeth every night, talking to him in that sing-songy voice, baby talk and giggles. Yet in O’Dell there was a kind of innocence. He wasn't evil. He had no choice at all in the matter; he'd probably have been better off in the prison, where at least he was feared and respected, which meant he was left alone; or in a home somewhere, if there'd been money to put him in a home where they could study the strange gaps in his mind that left him mute and empty, yet curiously able to perform small hand-eye tasks like driving or shooting. Left to his own ways and shielded from temptation, he probably wouldn't hurt a flea.
Richard turned from O’Dell and found himself looking into the blank sunglasses of a deputy sheriff.
Lamar sat at the counter, sipping coffee. He looked like any middle-aged cowpoke, Texas style. Behind his shades, his eyes scoped the place out. It was done in green-and brown zigzags, low-intensity colors to soothe people. He checked for entrances: the main one in the front right-hand corner of the building and, around to the side, an emergency exit, painted over. The windows gave a good view of the parking lot, however. His eyes went back to the counter, followed it to the register, which he saw was some kind of computer type deal. He figured when he went to the John, he could carefully check the register and see if there was a silent-alarm button or wire near the cash drawer, rare but not so rare it shouldn't be checked out. Hell, who knew, in goddamned Texas there might be a sawed-off or a six-gun slung under the register. This damned state had guns everywhere!
There was a mirror on the wall, too, probably okay, but he made himself a note to check it out. You put the point of a pencil up against it; if there was a gap between the pencil and its reflection you were okay, but if they touched, it was a one-way job, which would, mean a watcher or maybe even a shooter on the other side.
The kitchen, as usual, was behind the counter, with a long Dutch window through which to slide the plates. Now it held two cooks; on Sunday, at least four, maybe six. All of them black. Would they make a fuss to save the boss man his insured money? Probably not, certainly not older guys.
But a young buck, like the niggers on the yard, busting with come and wanting to show how dead tough they were?
Hmmmm. Would bear watching.
He pivoted slightly to study the layout of the tables. Only one dining room, that was fine, but what wasn't was the dogleg as the greedy bastards that ran the place had set six booths in the hallway that led to the bathrooms and the manager's office as a no-smoking zone. Be hard for one man to cover both the main room, with its fifty or so tables, and the hallway, ninety degrees to the right. The register man could probably cover both; or he himself, as he took the manager back to his office, could cover the hallway. But where would he put his tail gunner? Best place would be in a window booth halfway down. That way, the tail gunner could watch for heroes in the crowd, and take them out if he had to, and also keep an eye tuned to the lot for cops. And there was that back way out, which pleased Lamar if it came to shooting. You never went into guns; you always went away from them, flanked them and dealt with them.
And then the problem with a goddamned wheel man.
With only four players on the crew, and one of them shaky as hell and another a cherry, and the room big, there was no way he could have the wheel man out and running. Needed the crew inside, all of them, even dickhead Richard. Didn't like that at all. Have to park right there at the entrance and run in; but a cop driving by might see the car, engine running, doors opened, empty. That's the sort of thing that set them off. Have to run a test on the patrol runs. How often does Johnny Cop come a-moseying by? And only three days till Sunday. Best to wait until next Sunday. But Richard would crack, O’Dell would get dangerously bored, and who knew what might go down with Ruta Beth here?
He looked over to Ruta Beth, who had turned.
“Shit,” she said, "a cop.”
The deputy tapped on the window. He was just a boy, really, mid-twenties, with cornsilk hair and eyes that were too far apart behind the aviator's shades. Actually, he looked a bit mean and surly, and he stared right at poor Richard. He gestured.
Richard just stared at him stupidly, his mind utterly blank with panic.
In fact, he wet his pants; the warm urine cascaded over his crotch under the dress. He blinked back tears. Behind him, Richard could feel O’Dell tense and see one of his hands disappear as it slid under the blanket where the AR-15 lay. The butt stock of the rifle was in plain sight; if the cop looked at it and could get beyond the idea of the absurdity of an assault rifle in the back of an old Toyota with two old ladies, he'd have them cold.
Richard began to gibber. Strange noises came from his throat.
“Ayah, ayah, ayah,” he began to chant through utterly dry lips. His mouth felt like a hole full of sand. Impatiently the cop repeated the strange gesture, and then tapped on the window.
“Wahl wn-duh,” said O’Dell.
More gibberish. Then it cleared magically in Richard's head: Roll down the window.
His trembling fingers flew to the crank and he wound it down, feeling an idiot's smile splay across his face. He was beyond panic, he was in some place where butterflies of pure fright flitted and danced.
“Howdy, ma'am,” said the young cop.
Mouth agape, Richard nodded moronically.
“It's such a hot day, I was somewhat worried to see y'all sealed up like that. A dog can die in an hour locked in a car, yes, ma'am, seen it myself. You going to need some air.”
It was pure nonsense to Richard. Why didn't the cop notice his whiskers, his thickish shoulders, the black hair on his arms, the broadness of his hands, or the goddamned rifle butt sticking out of the blanket between the two?
“Ya'll from out of town? Oklahoma. Down here visiting?”
Richard's tongue seemed to constrict; he wasn't sure what he was about to spit out.
“Aunt Lucy! Oh, Aunt Lucy, don't you git upset.”
He looked over and saw Ruta Beth flying down the steps toward him and Lamar hanging back but eyeing the situation carefully.
She ran to Richard and began to stroke his hand gently, saying to the cop, "You know, Aunt Lucy was as perky as a bumblebee until the stroke.
Now she just sits in the rocker all day long with Mrs. Jackson and they rock and rock and rock. On Thursdays, we like to take them for a long drive.
Only chance they ever git to be off the farm.”
The young cop stepped back, looking from Ruta Beth to Richard and back again, never once considering Lamar.
“Thursday's Bill's day off,” Ruta Beth continued.
“He works at the Chalmers plant up in Oklahoma City. Lord, he's a kind soul. My first. Jack Williams, Jr.” why that man wouldn't do a thing if it weren't to his own advantage.”
She turned dramatically.
“Bill, honey, it's okay. You can go back and get the ice cream.”
Lamar nodded, and headed back inside.
“They love ice cream,” Ruta Beth continued to the young officer.