controlled aggression, and sat back only after swiping the plate clean with toast. There was nothing special about the food, except that it was perfect, Joe thought.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” Ed said as he brought the coffeepot and the bill to the table. “Will Jensen used to be the first guy in the door about three days a week. I saw the cowboy hat and the jacket, and, well . . .”
Joe smiled. “I understand.”
Ed arched his eyebrows. “You even chose his table.”
At first, that disturbed Joe. Then he thought about it, and it made sense. The table he’d chosen was nearest the kitchen, so he would know who was behind him and also be able to see who entered the restaurant. Through the window, he could note the license plates of the vehicles that arrived in the sliver of a parking lot, and would be able to check vehicles that were likely hunting rigs. That Joe had chosen the table without thinking about it seemed natural, as it probably had for Will. Still, though...
“Will was a big fan of the Sportsman’s Special,” Ed said, beaming. “He even took his eggs and meat the same way.”
“I’ll be darned,” Joe said, with a pang of disquietude.
“There will be quite a few hunters in here any minute,”
Ed said. “We’re the only place open this early.”
Joe looked at the bill. Breakfast cost more than it would have in Saddlestring, but it wasn’t as expensive as he’d feared.
“You said something about owning this place for now,”
Joe asked. “What did you mean by that?”
Ed made change from a bulging pocket on his apron.
“The lot is worth five times what the business is worth because I’m close to the square and I’ve been here a long time. I’m proud to say we’ve fed thousands of hunters and fishermen over the years—men who want big breakfasts.
But the offers have been coming for the last ten years, the price is right. Some guy from Seattle wants to open up an Indonesian restaurant in Jackson, and he likes the location.”
“Indonesian?” Joe asked. “Where’s a guy going to get breakfast?”
Ed shrugged. “Don’t know. Besides, this place doesn’t fit anymore, and neither do I.”
When Joe stepped out of the Sportsman’s Cafe, he saw Smoke Van Horn coming up the wooden sidewalk with three other men. It was obvious to Joe from the look of them—heavy winter coats, crisp jeans, massive hightech boots, an odd assortment of headgear—that they were Smoke’s hunting clients.
“It’s the FNG!” Smoke boomed, forging ahead of his customers and extending his bearlike hand to Joe. “How’re you doing this great morning?”
“Fine, Smoke.”
One of Smoke’s clients, a tall man with a thin mustache and a threeday growth of beard he must have started before he left home, asked, “FNG?”
Joe knew what was coming.
“Fucking new guy.” Smoke laughed. “Meet my compadres, Joe. Everybody’s from Georgia.”
Smoke introduced the three men to Joe and they all took turns crushing his hand.
“Go on inside and grab a table,” Smoke told them. “I’ll be right behind you after I talk to the game warden. In fact, I brung you something.”
Smoke dug into his coat and handed Joe a copy of the book he had written, How the Pricks Deny Me a Living.
“It’s signed,” Smoke said.
Joe flipped to the title page. Smoke had inscribed “Don’t be a prick” in childish longhand, followed by his signature.
Joe had to smile. Then he looked up at the hunters, asking, “Everybody’s got licenses and wildlife stamps, right?”
The men looked guiltily at one another for an instant.
“Of course they do,” Smoke said.
“Let’s make sure,” Joe said, keeping his tone light. He stood by until all of the hunters had dug into their wallets and showed Joe their licenses and stamps while Smoke glowered. Joe knew that the hunters would likely spend $5,000 to $6,000 each with Smoke, maybe more for the opportunity to get a trophy elk with the famous outfitter.
There would be dozens of other clients arriving throughout the season.
“Thanks, gentlemen,” Joe said. “The Sportsman’s Special comes recommended.”
After the three hunters had gone inside, Smoke turned to Joe. “What kind of outfit do you think I’m running?”
“From what I’ve heard, you run the most efficient hunting operation in terms of success ratio in this valley,” Joe said.
“So why are you checking my clients’ licenses like I’m some kind of peckerwood?”
Joe buttoned up his jacket against the cold, which had dropped the temperature a few degrees as dawn broke.
