There were no other customers, and no sign of life in the street outside the eatery.
“We could go some other place,” Dean suggested.
Ryan sniffed. “No. We’ve waited long enough here. Can’t be too much longer. We go elsewhere and start this business all over again. No thanks, son.”
There had been a coil of black, greasy smoke from the kitchen a few minutes earlier, which had promised much.
And delivered nothing.
There had also been a rapid burst of Spanish from what sounded like a young girl, then the deeper voice of Ma, followed by the meaty thump of a roundhouse right finding its target. A flurry of tears followed.
“Won’t be long, strangers,” Ma called, poking her head above the door. “Figure you’re all getting a mite hungered.”
“We were mite hungered before got here,” Jak said. “Now all very hungry.”
“Take care, you white-head freak. Boy gets too sharp and he cuts hisself.”
Less than five minutes later Ma waddled into the room carrying the seven helpings of meat with the promised assortment of vegetables.
She dumped the platters in front of each of the party, then started back toward the kitchen.
She stopped in the doorway when Ryan called her.
“This it?” he asked.
“Sure it is. Roast venison and sweet potatoes and honeyed cabbage with peas and carrots. What the fuck does it look like, outlander?”
“I’m not that sure. Meat looks like parts of it have been flame-grilled and parts haven’t seen any heat at all. And it looks more like horse than deer to me. And the vegetables look to be either over- or undercooked.”
She pointed a hand at him, the fingers sticking out as if they were contained in an inflated red glove. “Best not use such details as an excuse for not completing the trade, mister!”
Ryan didn’t answer her, and she disappeared into the kitchen.
THE FOOD WAS AS AWFUL as it looked.
“I can only eat about a quarter of the meat, Dad,” Dean moaned. “The rest’s either raw or burned.”
“My carrots were quite pleasant,” Doc offered. “But I confess that the rest of the so-called ‘special’ meal falls rather short of adequacy.”
“I think the potatoes were actually past their eat-by-if-you’re-starving date,” Mildred said. “I might have eaten worse, but I can’t remember when.”
“Beer’s warm.” Jak sipped at a second bottle, leaving it unfinished. “And flat.”
Krysty glanced at Ryan, sitting next to her. “What do we do, lover?”
“Easy. No eat, no pay.”
“Ma doesn’t look the sort of man, or woman, who’ll listen to a reasoned argument,” J.B. said as he polished his glasses on a torn napkin.
At that moment the door flew open and Ma erupted into the restaurant. “I heard that, you shitters!” she screamed. “Well, you pay me or you’ll all get to eat this!”
She held a sawn-down 12-gauge.
Chapter Eleven
Nobody made a hasty move, all of them watching Ryan to see how he was going to play it.
He sat still, both hands on the table, pushing the nearly full plate away from him, his one chillingly blue eye fixed to Ma’s flushed face.
“You think this is worth any payment?” he asked mildly. “Really?”
“Sure. You did a deal, compadre . You had the food, and I want the bullets.”
“Seven rounds of the 9 mm full-metal jackets? Was that it?”
“Yeah. Should make you trade double for the trouble.” A broad smile stretched across her face. “Double trouble. Get it? Double for trouble.”
Ryan was fighting against his anger, struggling to conceal the red rage that was seeping over his brain.
“The food was shit,” he said.
“Takes a shitter to know shit, sweet one,” Ma said with a snigger, pointing the gaping barrels of the 12-gauge into Ryan’s face. “Ain’t that the truth?”
“You’re sowing seeds of blood,” Doc warned, “and you’ll reap the harvest.”
“Shut up, you triple-old stupe!”
Ma turned to Ryan. “Instead of just a few miserable bullets, I’ll take that pretty automatic you got on your belt, One-eye.”
“All right.” Ryan had it all under control now, his ice-cold combat brain offering him alternative plans of action, showing which was the best.