“Hell, we take anything.” A big hand dug into a pocket beneath the stained apron, emerged holding fragments of metal, plastic, and crystal. Some of the crystals burned with bright internal fires. Max displayed the handful before shoving it back in his pocket.
“You run a place out in the boonies, you better get used to acceptin’ some funny money.”
“If you’d prefer, I think we can cover the bill with cash.”
“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.”
“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 wife, who was looking on from behind the counter—“well, let’s just say it don’t happen often.”
“You okay?” Even as he asked, Frank wondered what Mouse had done to the much bigger man. There’d been a spark, a ripping noise, and he’d been thrown across the floor as though he’d been shot from a cannon.
“Sure, I’m okay.”
“I didn’t mean to do anything.” Mouse was openly apologetic. “I’m usually very careful.”
“You were careful,” Max told her. “I should’ve mentioned that I’m an open receptor. Usually I just get a sip of everybody who comes through here. I wasn’t prepared for a deluge. Most folks don’t put out more than a trickle.” He took a deep breath. “That’ll be a memory to savor. Thanks.” He looked around the table. “You can thank the lady here for your meals. On the house.”
“You sure?” Frank fumbled for his wallet. “You should let us pay you something. I still have to fill up.”
“Go ahead.”
