Brambleman Read Free Page B

a new
experience for him—he looked like a tightrope walker with cerebral
palsy. Horrible to behold. Charlie stepped toward him, but the
stranger waved off his helping hand, causing Charlie’s hair to
stand on end. By the time they reached the diner entrance, the
stranger had adapted to this mode of transportation, more or
less.
    If Lil Bit was unhappy to see Charlie return,
she was horrified to see—and smell—his friend. She acknowledged the
newcomer’s arrival with a loud groan.
    The Rebel laughed and punched his buddy.
“Retard got hisself a spaz for a pet.”
    Charlie turned to address the men in the
booth: “This guy just got hit by lightning! Cut him some slack.” He
hoped that this strange news would break the ice and relieve the
antagonism that had been building up.
    No such luck.
    “You’ll think you been hit with lightning
when I’m through with you, bitch,” the Rebel said.
    Charlie whispered behind his hand to his new
companion: “They’re looking for trouble.”
    “Well then, today’s their lucky day.” The old
man regarded the drunks disdainfully, drawing murderous looks in
return.
    Charlie shook his head at the stringy-haired
bantam’s bravado and slipped onto a counter seat. The stranger did
likewise. “Two coffees, please,” Charlie said, hoping this time
that Lil Bit would acknowledge his order.
    Feeling a static charge in the air, Charlie
snuck a sidelong glance at his companion. Under the fluorescent
light, the guy appeared to be not just old, but also terribly
weathered—and abused. Veins threatened to break through the old
man’s paper-thin skin, which was darker than white and lighter than
black. His grubby, uneven facial stubble looked like he’d hacked at
it with an old knife, and he had the bloodshot, color-drained eyes
of an ancient alcoholic. And he smelled worse inside than
out—rotting teeth, with a hint of carrion. When Charlie leaned
back, he noticed long bumps—or ridges—under a tight, wet, and
remarkably unburned T-shirt that proclaimed It’s Better in the
Bahamas . Were those welts? Was this guy so old he’d spent time
on a chain gang? What kind of hellhole had the poor guy been in
where they flogged people? North Vietnam?
    “What’s your name?” Charlie asked.
    “I’ve got a better question,” the stranger
said. “Who are you?”
    “Who am I? Charles Sherman.”
    The stranger laughed. “Are you going to
settle for that?”
    That was rude . “Well, people call me
Charlie. How about you?”
    “I’m not from around here,” the stranger
said. “And I’ve been places you’ll never want to go. Unless you’re
even stupider than you look.”
    Charlie grimaced at the insult. After a
moment, curiosity overcame resentment. OK, the guy wasn’t going to
say who he was. He’d try a different tack. “Where are you
from?”
    “I just told you.”
    “Not exactly. Uh, how old are you?”
    “What year is it?”
    Charlie told him.
    The stranger nodded and said, “Sounds about
right.”
    “Huh? Never mind. Forget I asked.” Obviously,
the guy’s brain was cooked.
    Lil Bit, who had been staring at them with a
curled lip, pointed to a sign above the grill: Pancake Hut IS
Home of the Sausage Cake . She blinked in surprise and yelled,
“Harley! Where’s the sign?”
    The middle-aged white man working the grill
wiped his hands on his apron and looked up, then turned to Charlie
and said, “Supposed to be a sign says, ‘ We Reserve the Right to
Refuse Service to You .’” Gray hair tufted over the top of his
T-shirt.
    “The one you had to take down after Pancake
Hut got sued for discrimination?” Charlie asked.
    “They didn’t say squat about stink,” Lil Bit
countered.
    “Just serve us some coffee and we’ll be on
our way,” Charlie said. “ Ways , actually.”
    The stranger beamed impishly at Lil Bit.
“That’s right. A cup of joe would go down good right about now, yes
ma’am.” She responded by moving to the far end of the counter