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"Hey, since when did anybody turn down cash? That steak done right?"
"Absolute perfection. Tastes of mesquite. Where do you find mesquite?"
Max shrugged modestly. "I got my suppliers. Truckers, they get everywhere." He
nodded toward the window. "There goes a regular right now."
Everyone turned as a blast of passing air rattled the windows and something
the size of the Queen Mary with wheels thundered through the intersection
beyond the gravel parking lot.
"Wow!" said Steven softly. There was a faint smell of burned caramel in the
air. It faded rapidly. "What was that?"
"Don't know for sure," Max told him. "Can't tell where everybody's going or
where they're coming from. But a lot of 'em stop here." He was quiet for a
long moment. "There is somethin' you could offer that'd be better than money,
though I'll take that, too. Call it a tip."
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"Like what?" Alicia asked hesitantly.
He looked down at her. "Personal contact. Oh, not what you'd call intimate. I
simply want to touch you." Seeing the expressions on their faces he explained
further. "Call it a hobby if you will, but one of the pleasures of running
this place is knowing the folks you serve."
"This won't hurt, will it?" Wendy asked him.
"No, little lady," he replied, laughing softly. "It won't hurt at all."
Frank shrugged. "God knows you've earned a bigger tip than anything we could
leave. If that's what you want ...." He stuck out his hand. "Pleased to meet
you. I'm Frank Sonderberg."
"Just call me Max." The chef extended his own paw.
It was an ordinary handshake they exchanged, except for the faint lingering
tingle Frank felt as he drew his fingers back. Without a second thought,
Alicia extended her own hand.
"I'm Alicia."
"Charmed." Max turned her hand over and kissed the back.
Frank wondered if his wife felt more or less of the subsidiary tingling as a
result.
Everyone shook his hand: the children, Flucca, then Begay. The chef's eyes
widened perceptibly as he gripped Burnfingers's equally large hand.
"Well, well: a Traveler."
"I get around. Hitchhike, mostly."
Max was just staring. "I'd like to talk with you at length."
"Be glad to, but I'm with these folks and they're in kind of a hurry.
Sorry."
"I understand." Max let the Indian's fingers drop. For a split second, less
than the blink of an eye, Frank thought he saw half a dozen steely green
digits attached to the chef's wrist. Or maybe they'd been silvery tentacles.
Two localized hallucinations in less than a second. Before he had time to
digest his eyes' deceptive information, Max's hand was a normal hand once
again.
"That's the trouble with folks. They stop here for a fill-up and a quick bite
to eat, and then they're off again, sometimes for the last time."
He turned to Mouse, extending his hand a final time.
She lifted her own tiny hand to meet his. Frank wasn't sure exactly what
happened next, but the first contact produced a bright blue flash and a
crackling in the air. He nearly fell out of his chair. Wendy squealed and
covered her face.
When he'd recovered from the shock, a cloud of blue smoke was already
beginning to dissipate above the table. Their host was lying against the
counter, legs spread, shaking his head like a man who'd just taken a solid
uppercut. Mouse was standing by her chair, her eyes even wider than usual.
"I didn't mean to do anything," she was saying over and over.
"It's okay. It's all right," Max told her. Eileen was leaning over the
counter, staring at him and still chewing her gum.
The chef used one of the counter stools for support as he rose. Then he turned
his gaze not on Mouse, but back on Frank. "You got any idea who you're
travelin' with, buddy?"
Frank stared at Mouse, who wore her usual enigmatic expression. "A
musician?"
"Musician, yeah." Max wiped at his pants, straightened his apron, and
chuckled. "Right: a musician." He inspected his hand, shaking it loosely from
the wrist while supporting his elbow with his other hand. "Quite a handshake
you got there, miss."
"Just call me Mouse."
"Miss Mouse, I haven't had contact like that since" -- he glanced back at his
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