James Axler – Watersleep

Doc rubbed his hands in anticipation of warm food.

“Pray tell, Madam Sandy, what is on the famed Tuckey’s menu for a hungry traveler?”

“Same as what was on it last night. Stew.”

“What kind of stew?” Doc queried.

“Stew…stew, I guess. Hell, I don’t cook it, I just serve it. There’s some meat, not much, but enough. Some vegetables. Pepper. You know. Stew.”

“Looks like we’re having stew, then,” Ryan said. “You serving up real coffee?”

The waitress snorted. “We both wish, mister. No, we’ve got Bojar’s Blend. It’s a sub. Not too bad if you mix it thick.”

“Fine. We’ll have that, too. Bring the pot.”

“How about dessert?”

Ryan was about to decline, but then caught the ex­cited look on Dean’s face. “Depends. What is it?”

“We got the special of the house,” Sandy drawled.

“Any good?” Ryan asked.

“Well, it’s been the special long as I can remem­ber,” Sandy replied, sidestepping the question.

Ryan frowned. “I still don’t know if that’s good or bad. What is it?”

“Ever sink your teeth into the chewy goodness of a pecan-nut log?” the waitress asked. “They’re a spe­cialty of the house. Each bar individually wrapped in plastic for your sanitary protection.”

“Good Lord, no!” Mildred cried out before anyone else could answer.

“I think we’ll pass,” Ryan said, exchanging curi­ous looks with a poker-faced J.B., who had taken his rain-splattered glasses from his coat pocket and was using a piece of his shirttail to clean them. Although seated next to Mildred, he paid her outburst no mind. “My doctor told me to lay off nuts.”

“Suit yourself. Seven stews and coffee it is.” The waitress spun on one orange high-heeled shoe and strode away into the back.

“Mind explaining what that little scene was all about?” Ryan asked once the woman was out of ear­shot.

“I used to stop in places like this on vacations as a kid,” Mildred explained. “Take the word of one who knows. If you’ve been in one tourist trap in Flor­ida, you’ve been in them all.”

“What kind trap?” Jak asked.

“Not a death trap, Jak,” Mildred told him. “A ‘tourist trap’ is a predark slang term for a spot that suckered in the rubes. Take my word for it. You do not want a pecan-nut log.”

“Speak for yourself, dear lady. Some of us here like pecans,” Doc protested.

“I should let you eat one, you old goat, but we don’t have time enough to spare for you to drop your trousers with the squirts every five minutes when we get back on the road. Besides, they’re probably left over from over a hundred years ago—all that business about ‘individually wrapped.’ I’m guessing the damned things had a shelf life of over a thousand years and they taste like it, too. Worse than self-heat meals.”

“Really?” Doc said, surprise falling across his face. “I had no idea.”

“Take my word for it,” Mildred assured him. “Stay away from any candy in the shape of a log.”

THE WAITRESS RETURNED first with a tray of seven steaming-hot mugs of coffee-sub that everyone agreed tasted like recycled wag coolant, but at least the fluid was thick and plentiful. Mildred and Dean revised their requests and asked for water instead, but after seeing what color the liquid was in the clear glasses, went back to the coffee, which at least was dark and hid any impurities.

The stew was a step up from the beverages. Chunks of real potato and bits of green parsley and cabbage were mixed in with some finely diced carrots and a kind of mystery meat that nobody could discern ex­actly.

“I’ve had worse,” Doc said, speaking for all of them.

“Must be why you went for a second helping,” Dean said.

“As did you, young Cawdor,” Doc responded over the rim of his coffee cup.

“Dean’s a growing boy, Doc,” Krysty said. “He needs his nourishment. You’d better watch out or you’ll be dragging around a potbelly.”

“Nonsense,” Doc pronounced through bites. “The Tanner clan has always been blessed with a high me­tabolism. The more we eat, the leaner we get.”

“How about some bread for the broth?” J.B. asked the server toward the end of the meal.