“But the bacon grease spits,” muttered Bob.
Mac winced. “I didn’t think of that.”
The man lowered the finger he’d been pointing at Tommy and abandoned his attempt to draw attention to the broken blood vessels on his chin. “I’m looking for Mr. Weeble. I was told I could find him here.”
Frank scowled. “No one but his mother and the I.R.S. called him Mr. Weeble.”
“No?”
“No. He’s The Tomato King. T.K. for short.”
“Very well. Do you know where I can find T.K.?”
The men looked at each other, held their glasses aloft and downed the air that remained in them with a single gulp.
“He’s dead,” said Tommy when they’d finished their toast.
The man scowled. “Is there anyone living in his house?”
“Elizabeth. She’s still there.”
“Beaver’s still there,” added Bob.
Mac punched him on the shoulder. “That’s no way to talk about Elizabeth.”
Bob rolled his eyes. “Beaver’s his dog, you idiot.”
Mac sniffed. “Oh. Right.”
The man shifted the weight from his left leg to his right. “Elizabeth’s his wife, I assume?”
Tommy nodded. “Yep. All the single women in Targetsville wore black to that wedding. Everyone wanted to be the Tomato Queen.”
“Not Mariska,” said Bob.
“She didn’t grow up here.”
Bob shrugged. “Still.”
The man continued. “Any children?”
Mac nodded. “I got five. Want one?”
“I meant Mr. Tomato. Did he have children?”
“Oh. Nah.” Mac didn’t explain to the man T.K. and Elizabeth had tried everything to produce an heir, including one ugly incident with a box of Miracle Grow. He didn’t mention Elizabeth had resorted to secretly naming the more attractive tomatoes after her immediate family. The man didn’t need to know.
The man lowered himself into T.K’s empty chair. The Gophers looked at each other and then glared at their uninvited guest.
“What can we help you with, buddy?” asked Mac.
“Can you tell me more about this Potato King?”
“Tomato King. T.K. was the Tomato King. If he were the Potato King we’d call him P.K.”
Tommy’s head lolled on his neck. “What a man. There hasn’t been a man like him since Jake Cardinal.”
Frank squinted at Tommy. “Jake Cardinal? Why does that name sound familiar?”
“He’s the guy who went to Canada to do Niagara Falls in a barrel filled with Fix-a-Flat.”
“Oh right. Right.”
The stranger’s eyes opened nearly as wide as Ban’s. “Did he succeed?”
Tommy shook his head. “The barrel was undamaged, but Jake overdid it with the Fix-a-Flat and suffocated.”
Mac nodded. “Tragic. Hey, why are you asking about T.K. anyway?”
The man pretended not to hear and motioned to Ban for a round of beers. “Can I get a round for the table?”
Mac opened his mouth to repeat his question only to have Bob place a hand on his arm.
“Nope. Hold it. Free beer,” he hissed.
The men remained strategically silent until Ban delivered the suds and turned to leave, nearly knocking over an old man entering the bar. The geezer screamed, “Herbert Vincent!” at the Gophers before pulling up a chair and sitting down beside them.
Odd, unless you knew he’d been trying to remember his name all day.
Herbert stole Tommy’s brand new beer, who in turn swiped Frank’s.
“Here’s a guy who could tell you the best story about T.K.,” Bob said, clapping Herbert on the back.
Herbert nodded. “I grew up here in Targetsville. Back in the day, my front porch, living room and bathroom were all crushed by dummy bombs.”
“Because your idiot dad built too close to the base,” mumbled Bob.
Herbert ignored him. “One of the few live silver bombs ever dropped shattered twelve of my fourteen windows.”
Frank looked at the stranger. “I think the pilots aimed for him.”
“Probably,” agreed Herbert, his chest swelling with what appeared to be pride.
Tommy picked up the story. “Major Hepper’s replacement tried to evict old Herbert from his familial home with the help of a dozen soldiers. Standoff lasted two days.”
Herbert raised both hands into the air to pick up the story on his own. “On day two, I heard this low buzzing noise in the distance. Abe Richard’s blue crop duster appeared over the horizon and swooped low over the Air Force men. That’s when T.K. released the bay doors and dropped a few hundred tomatoes on the heads of those bastards.”
Herbert laughed so hard he triggered a coughing fit and the others waited until he’d caught his breath.
“After all the press coverage, the Major let me keep my land,” he added, wheezing.
Tommy took up the narrative reins for Herbert as he pretended to need Mac’s beer to quell his cough.
“The story of the Great Tomato War grew larger and longer, until legend had it T.K., flying a shiny new B-52, dropped a hundred exploding red tomatoes, each with the wallop of a single hand grenade, on ten thousand armed soldiers and ten tanks, sending them off in such a fright the next day they offered to give all the land to T.K., who selflessly donated it to the town.”
The stranger nodded slowly, his mouth pressed into a hard frown. “Well, I think I’ve heard enough.” He squinted at the badge on Frank’s chest. “Are you the sheriff?”
Frank nodded. “County. Why?”
“I have some papers for Elizabeth. Could you see that these get to her?” He pulled a manila envelope from his jacket and held it out. “I wouldn’t ask except I’ve tried to deliver them myself several times.”
Frank took the package. “Are you asking me to serve her papers?” He slid the sheets from the manila envelope and glanced over them as the man moved away. “Hold it. These say you’re going to rip up T.K’s land.”
The man shook his head. “Our land.”
Herbert Vincent leapt to his feet, his eyes flashing white as his
