Shoot / Don't Shoot

So are women who run for the office of sheriff, Joanna thought with a rueful smile. Squaring her shoulders, she climbed out of the truck and headed for the entrance. Just inside the door, she paused to get her bearings, allowing her ears to adjust to thee noisy din and her eyes to become accustomed to the dim light.

The joint was divided almost evenly between dining area and bar. The smoke-filled bar was jammed nearly full while the restaurant was largely empty. In both sections, railroad memorabilia—from fading pictures and travel posters to crossing signs—decorated every inch of available wall space. A platform, dropped from the ceiling, ran around the outside of the room and supported the tracks for several running electric trains that hummed overhead at odd intervals. One wall was devoted to a big-screen television where a raucous group of sports-minded drinkers were jockeying for tables in advance of a Monday-night football game. Above the din of the pregame announce­ments, a blaring jukebox wailed out Roger Miller’s plaintive version of “Engine, Engine Nine.”

The semicircular bar in the dead center of the room was jammed with people. Seeing the crowd, Joanna’s heart fell. She had hoped that by now the Happy Hour crowd would have gone home and the Roundhouse would be reasonably quiet. A slow evening would give her a chance to talk to the bartender. Under these busy circumstances, that wouldn’t be easy.

With a sigh Joanna made for the single unoccu­pied stool she had spotted at the bar. If she sat there, she might manage to monopolize the bartender long enough for a word or two. He was a short, round-shouldered man with a shaved head, heavy black eyebrows, and a neatly trimmed, pencil-thin mustache. The name tag pinned to his shirt said BUTCH.

Butch Dixon appeared in front of Joanna almost before she finished hoisting herself onto the seat, shoving a wooden salad bowl overflowing with popcorn in her direction. “What’ll it be?” he asked.

“Diet Coke,” she said.

“Diet Pepsi okay?”

“Sure.”

He went several steps down the bar, filled two glasses with ice, and then added liquid using a push-button dispenser. When he returned, he s both glasses in front of Joanna. “That’ll be a buck,” he said.

Joanna dug in her purse for money. “I only asked for one,” she said.

Butch Dixon grinned. “Hey, don’t fight it, lady,” he said. “It’s Happy Hour and Ladies’ Night both. You get two drinks for the price of one. You new around here?”

Joanna nodded.

“Well, welcome to the neighborhood.”

A cocktail waitress with a tray laden with empty glasses showed up at her station several seats away. While Butch Dixon hurried to take the used glasses and fill the waitress’s new orders, Joanna sipped her Diet Pepsi and surveyed the room. On first glance the Roundhouse appeared to be respectable enough, and, unlike the truck stop, no one tried to proposition her. She had finished one drink and was started on the other before Butch paused in front of her again.

“How’re you doing?” he asked.

“Fine. Is the food here any good?”

“Are you kidding? We were voted Best Bar Hamburgers in the Valley of the Sun two years in a row. Want one? I can bring it to you here, or you could move to the dining room.”

“Here,” she said.

“Fries? The works?”

After fighting sleep all morning, Joanna had skipped lunch at noontime in favor of grabbing a nap. Hungry now, she nodded.