Qwilleran telephoned Roger at the office. “Could you shirk your parental duties for one night,” he asked the new father, “and meet me somewhere for dinner?”
“Right! Sharon owes me one. I baby-sat twice last week while she went out,” said Roger. “Want to meet me in Brrr for a boozeburger?”
“Sure,” Qwilleran said, “or we could try that new restaurant if you like red-hot food.”
“I’m willing to give it a try. I have some red-hot news for you.”
The new restaurant was called the Hot Spot, and it advertised in the Something as “the cool place to go for hot cuisine.” It occupied a former fireball in Brrr, with thirty tables jammed into space that once housed two firetrucks. The original brick walls and stamped metal ceiling had been retained, and there was nothing to absorb sound except the sweating bodies that swarmed into the place for Mexican, Cajun and East Indian dishes.
“Noisy, isn’t it?” Qwilleran observed as he and Roger stood in line for a table.
“Noisy is what people like,” Roger said. “It makes them think they’re having a good time.”
A flustered host seated them at a small table squeezed between two others of the same limited dimensions. On one side were a pair of underclad beachcombers, shouting at each other in order to be heard. On the other side were two shrill-voiced women in resort clothes.
“This is not the place for exchanging confidences,” Qwilleran said.
“Let’s just eat and get out,” Roger suggested. “Then we can have pie and coffee at the Black Bear and do some talking.”
Waiters scurried about, bumping the chairs of the closely packed diners and colliding with each other. Qwilleran felt something splash on the back of his neck and dabbed at it with a napkin; it was red.
A harried waiter came to take their orders.
“Enchiladas!” Qwilleran said loudly.
“How hot d’you want the sauce?”
“Industrial strength!”
“Cajun pork chops!” Roger shouted.
After ordering they stared at each other dumbly, defeated by the high-decibel din. Qwilleran saw-seated across the table-a pale, slender, eager young man whose neatly clipped black beard and trimmed black hair accentuated his white complexion. Roger saw a robust fifty-year-old whose luxuriant salt-and-pepper moustache was known throughout Moose County and in several cities Down Below.
Although they found it difficult to communicate, nearby voices came through with amazing clarity. A woman’s strident voice said, “My cat is always throwing up hairballs as big as my thumb.”
Qwilleran frowned. “How’s Sharon?” he shouted to Roger.
“Itching to go back to work!”
“How old is Junior?”
“Six months, two weeks, three days!”
Qwilleran became aware of a large bare foot, probably size fifteen, rising from the floor alongside him, as the beachcomber at the next table said to his companion, “Look at this toenail. D’you think I’ll lose it? It turned black after I dropped the anchor on it.”
The shrill voice on the other side was saying, “Her husband’s in the hospital.
They cut him from ear to ear and took out a tumor as big as a brussels sprout.”
At that moment two dinner plates were banged down on the table without warning.
Qwilleran sniffed his and said, “This isn’t Mexican food. This is Indian curry.”
“I ordered pork chops,” said Roger, “but this is some kind of omelette.”
“Let’s get out of here!” Qwilleran seized both plates and carried them to the entrance, where he handed them to the astonished host. “Warm these up and serve them to somebody else,” he said. “Come on, Roger, let’s go to the Black Bear.”
The Black Bear Cafe” in the century-old Hotel Booze was famous for its boozeburgers and homemade pies. The atmosphere was dingy and the furniture sleazy, but one could converse. Qwilleran and Roger seated themselves cautiously in two rickety chairs and were greeted by Gary Pratt, the shaggy black-bearded proprietor. He had a stevedore’s shoulders and a sailor’s tan.
“Looks like you’ve been out on your boat,” Qwilleran remarked.
“Every Sunday!” said the big man in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.
“Is the Hot Spot cutting into your business?”
“All my customers went there once, when the place first opened, but they’ve all come back. What’ll you have?”
“Boozeburger and a beer for me,” said Roger.
“Boozeburger and coffee,” Qwilleran said. “Okay, Roger, let’s have your hot news.”
“Do you know Three Tree Island?”
“Only by name. It’s out in the lake in front of my place, I believe, but not visible from shore.”
“It’s several miles out-just a flat, sandy beach with a hump in the middle and a clump of trees. It belongs to a guy who owns some charter fishing boats, and he has a dock and fishing shack out there. Fishermen tie up to do a little drinking and clean their catch. Kids go sunning on the sand and use the shack for God-knows-what.”
“So what’s the news? He’s decided to build condominiums?”
“The news is-and I got it from the pilot of the sheriffs helicopter-that there’s been a UFO landing on the beach!”
Qwilleran regarded Roger with scornful disbelief. “He’s putting you on.”
“He’s serious. I know the guy well. He spotted a large burned patch on the island-perfectly round.”
“Some kids had a bonfire,” Qwilleran said.
“Too big for that.”
“What does the sheriff say?”
“The pilot hasn’t made an official report. It might affect his credibility in the department.”
“What are you leading up to?”
“I thought we could get a Geiger counter or something and go out there, and I’d write a story for the paper. Bushy has a boat, and he’s game.”
Qwilleran was temporarily speechless. In his early days, however, as a reporter he had followed wilder leads than this one. Roger was young. He should not be discouraged.
“Would you like to come with us?” the younger man asked.
Qwilleran smoothed his moustache thoughtfully. Although he placed no stock in the rumor, he hated to be left out of the investigation. “I wouldn’t mind going along for the ride.”
“As a disinterested third party you could corroborate our findings, and it would add weight to the story.”
“Don’t trap me into endorsing any harebrained adventure tale, m’boy. What’s Bushy’s reaction?”
“He’s ready to go! I just wanted to get some input from you.”
A waitress served the boozeburgers, six inches in diameter, four inches high, and famous throughout the county. The two men munched in silence for a while.
This mountain of food required the utmost concentration and several paper napkins, and it so happened that the Black Bear charged a nickel for a paper napkin, not of the best quality.
“Everything okay?” asked Gary Pratt, prowling around the dining area like the black bear that he resembled.
“Next time I’m bringing my own paper napkins,” said Qwilleran. “What’s the pie today?”
“Chocolate meringue, but it’s going fast. Want to order a couple of pieces?”
“It all depends on how you’re cutting the pie-with an inch-rule or a micrometer.
I know your game, Gary. What you lose on the burgers, you make up on the pie and the paper napkins.”
“For a couple of healthy guys like you,” Gary said, “I’d suggest two slices apiece, and I won’t charge for the napkins.”
“It’s a deal!”
Gary shuffled away, cackling his high-pitched laugh.
By the time the four slices of pie were served to the two men, it was Qwilleran’s turn to launch a rumor of his own. He said, “Instead of chasing UFOs, Roger, you should be investigating a rash of criminal activity in Mooseville.’”