Two guys, the same size and with the same color hair, began coming in together around five o’clock every day. They always sat in the same booth if they could and even seemed to wear the same clothes every day if that was possible. Their hair was always wet and combed back. They both wore thick glasses. One of them, Steve, had lost a leg and walked on steel crutches. June figured he’d lost it in Viet Nam. It was something you didn’t ask somebody about. If he had a prosthesis, he never wore it, she thought. He’d cut off his pant’s leg, folded it, and kept it in place with a big safety pin. He was built up, probably from using his arms and shoulders to swing himself along. The other guy, Walt, was thinner but looked athletic—he usually wore t-shirts and had well-defined biceps and triceps. She couldn’t remember how she learned their names—in conversation maybe. She didn’t know their last names.
They began every meal with a round of beers—Budweisers in bottles. The night they first came in Steve asked June for a Harp beer and a Guinness stout. She told him them they didn’t carry it. Apparently, he wanted to mix them. She’d heard somewhere that was an Irish thing and this was a German place. Anyway, they ordered Budweisers after that—they never drank liquor or wine.
June always called them fellas rather than guys. Calling someone a fella was her style since she grew up in the late forties and early fifties. These two were obviously sixties kids. She was forty-five and had over a decade on them she thought.
She wondered why neither of them ever made a pass. Other younger guys would ask her when she got off or ask for her number. So she must not have lost it completely; you know, not become solely the province of the older men. Not that she ever dated any of the younger fellas, mind you. But since these two were regulars she thought one or the other of them would eventually get around to making a move she would evade.
One evening the sheriff and his new deputy arrived for a word with her.
“June,” the Sheriff said, “I hear you wait on two guys every night—Steven Schuyler and Walter Xander—one lost a leg.” The deputy starred at her, his mouth open.
“Is that a question?”
“Is it true?”
“I guess so. I only know them as Steve and Walt.”
“When did you see them last?”
“Last night around five. Look, Frank. They’ve been in here for the last month. They drink two buds and always order dinner. They’re polite, don’t tip well, and leave within an hour.”
“The deputy will stay here till we round those two up.”
“What’s going on?”
“We think they’re dangerous.”
“Huh?”
“Two teenage girl hitchhikers ended up dead in their trailer. We’ve no idea where Walt and Steve have got to.”
They began every meal with a round of beers—Budweisers in bottles. The night they first came in Steve asked June for a Harp beer and a Guinness stout. She told him them they didn’t carry it. Apparently, he wanted to mix them. She’d heard somewhere that was an Irish thing and this was a German place. Anyway, they ordered Budweisers after that—they never drank liquor or wine.
June always called them fellas rather than guys. Calling someone a fella was her style since she grew up in the late forties and early fifties. These two were obviously sixties kids. She was forty-five and had over a decade on them she thought.
She wondered why neither of them ever made a pass. Other younger guys would ask her when she got off or ask for her number. So she must not have lost it completely; you know, not become solely the province of the older men. Not that she ever dated any of the younger fellas, mind you. But since these two were regulars she thought one or the other of them would eventually get around to making a move she would evade.
One evening the sheriff and his new deputy arrived for a word with her.
“June,” the Sheriff said, “I hear you wait on two guys every night—Steven Schuyler and Walter Xander—one lost a leg.” The deputy starred at her, his mouth open.
“Is that a question?”
“Is it true?”
“I guess so. I only know them as Steve and Walt.”
“When did you see them last?”
“Last night around five. Look, Frank. They’ve been in here for the last month. They drink two buds and always order dinner. They’re polite, don’t tip well, and leave within an hour.”
“The deputy will stay here till we round those two up.”
“What’s going on?”
“We think they’re dangerous.”
“Huh?”
“Two teenage girl hitchhikers ended up dead in their trailer. We’ve no idea where Walt and Steve have got to.”
