Shoot / Don't Shoot

“I wish I’d had a chance to get to know him,” David Thompson said. “Know what I mean?”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “I certainly do.”

On the third of January, Joanna returned to Peoria to complete her interrupted session at the APOA.

When she checked into her dormitory room—the same one she’d been assigned to before—she was relieved to discover that, under the auspices of an interim director, the mirrored walls had all been replaced with plaster-coated wallboard. The door leading into the tunnel along the back of the dorm no longer existed. The opening had been stuccoed shut.

After unpacking, Joanna climbed back in her Blazer and drove to the Roundhouse Bar and Grill. Carrying a bag full of Christmas goodies, she walked into the bar.

Butch Dixon grinned when he saw her. “The usual?”

“Why not?” she asked, slipping onto a stool. “How are the hamburgers today?”

Butch waggled his hands. “So-so,” he answered. “I’m breaking in a new cook, so things are a little iffy.”

“I’ll try the Roundhouse Special, only no Ca­boose this time. I’ve had enough sweets for the time being.”

Butch wrote down her order. “How’s your new jail cook working out?” he asked.

“Ruby’s fine so far,” Joanna answered. “She got out of jail on the assault charge one day, and we hired her as full-time cook the next. The inmates were ecstatic.”

“I only hope mine works out that well,” Butch returned.

Joanna pushed the bag across the bar. “Merry Christmas.”

“For me?”

Joanna nodded. “Better late than never,” she said.

One at a time, Butch Dixon hauled things out the bag. “Homemade flour tortillas. Who made these?” he asked.

“Juanita Grijalva,” Joanna answered. “She says she’ll send you some green corn tamales the next time she makes them.”

“Good deal,” Butch said, digging deeper into the bag. There were four kinds of cookies, a loaf of homemade bread, and an apple pie.

“Those are all from Eva Lou,” Joanna explained “I tried to tell her that since you own a restaurant you didn’t need all this food. She said that a restaurant’s the worst place to get anything home made.”

Butch grinned. “She’s right about that.”

From the very bottom of the bag, Butch pulled out the only wrapped and ribboned package. Tear­ing off the paper, Butch Dixon found himself hold­ing a framed five-by-seven picture of a little blond-haired girl in a Brownie uniform standing behind a Radio Flyer wagon that was stacked high with cartons of Girl Scout cookies.

“Hey,” he said. “A picture of Jenny. Thanks.”

“That’s not jenny,” Joanna