The Broken Rifle
Copyright© 2024 by Old Man with a Pen
Chapter 25
Upon arrival in the big city, I directed. Big deal ... one right turn, park in front. She locked up.
“You could leave the keys in it and go away for a week. It’d be here when you get back.”
“Really? I’m used to D.C. If I left the keys in it, got out and turned around it’d be gone. Small town rules?”
“Yup.”
“Where’s the meter?”
“Meter?”
“Pay parking?”
“Down town.”
DING
“Morning, Bobby.”
“Morning, Dave. The usual?”
“Maybe ... lemme ask.”
“Ma’am Brownshoe. Bobby makes the best B&G in four states ... maybe the whole country. Yes or no?”
“B&G?”
“Biscuits and Gravy.”
“I dun know. We’re after coffee.”
“Yes ma’am. Forty coffees to go, Bobby.”
“Have a seat... 40 will take some time.”
He sent the dishwasher after another sleeve of cups.
“B&G for two, Bobby.”
He served it up.
“40? Who’s at your place?”
“Washington ... you guilty of something?”
“Probably. If not today, tomorrow fer sure. Wait? Washington? State or D.C.?”
“D.C.”
“Oh God ... lemme call my brother. He’ll call the phone-tree.”
“They’re here for Great Great Grand Pa.”
“He’s been found?”
“Yup.”
“Alive?”
“Bobby?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me none ... you fuckers live forever.”
“Dead.”
“Finally.” Bobby wiped his face with his apron. “He’d be 149 if he was alive.”
“One fifty tomorrow.”
Ms Brownshoe was plowing her way through my plate ... she’d finished hers and figured I’d be busy. “No sense in letting this get cold,” she mumbled, hoping I wouldn’t hear.
I did.
“Hey ... eat your own ... oh ... you did.”
“Bobby?” She had to ask.
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