Pickups bounced through pot holes outside the Lone Cafe. Something was up. June took an inventory: old bird Billy; young jerks Joe and Eli; Ohara—liked to fight; crazy lady; and a middle-aged couple of tattooed strangers she’d seen before. The woman, long dark hair going gray, wore a man’s shirt, top three buttons open with 20-year-old roses wrinkled deep in her over-tanned décolletage; her cowboy looked like he could rip anyone in half. Dick was there to cook. The crazy lady played Crazy on the juke.
“That’s not Patsy!”
“No, Linda Ronstadt.”
”Jeez she had balls to record that.”
“That’s not Patsy!”
“No, Linda Ronstadt.”
”Jeez she had balls to record that.”
