A Blind Eye by G. M. Ford Page B

Rapids was a hundred ten miles.”
    Ahead in the distance, a brightly lit sign hovered above the treetops. Diesel. 1.24. Above that in red neon: F O D
    “I’ve gotta pee,” Dougherty said.
    “Might as well fill ’er up while we’re at it.”
    She shook her head. “First the bathroom.”
    Frozen gravel popped and snapped beneath the Ford’s tires as she wheeled the car across the lot and parked it between a pair of ancient pickup trucks. Half a dozen 18-wheelers lined the far end of the lot. EARLS the place was called. No apostrophe. Just EARLS. A diner. Thirty-foot Streamliner, built in the late fifties. All stainless steel. No porcelain. Sign on the roof said it all. EAT.
    The yellow light from the diner’s windows cast trapezoidal shadows across the frozen ground. Corso pulled open the door and let Dougherty precede him inside.
    Twelve steel-rimmed stools on one side. Mostly full. Six Naugahyde booths on the other. Mostly empty. Pies in a mirrored case behind the counter. Atop the case a grainy black-and-white TV blared out the local news. A pair of ancient waitresses and a guy in a dirty apron behind the counter. Maybe ten customers. Truck drivers mainly. John Deere caps, jeans, and flannel shirts. Guys with that big-gut-and-no-ass look you get from eighteen hours a day behind the wheel. As they stood in the doorway, a guy with no discernible chin came limping past, bussing dishes in a red plastic pan.
    “In or out, honey. We ain’t heating the outside,” one of the waitresses called. Corso nudged Dougherty forward. He stepped inside and let the door swing closed behind him. The air reeked of cigarette smoke and primordial grease.
    Corso put a hand on Dougherty’s shoulder, guiding her left toward the rest rooms. Halfway down the aisle, Corso slipped into a booth. Back to the door, he watched as Dougherty walked through the archway and turned left. She stood with the open door in her hand. Said something to somebody, hesitated, and then stepped inside.
    A waitress appeared at his elbow. She had a face like a satchel and a mouthful of brown teeth, spaced out like pickets on a fence. “What’ll it be?”
    Corso ordered two coffees. Above the clink of silverware and the low-octave chatter, the TV speaker spasmed, “…in the valley, clear and cold, highs in the low twenties, lows near zero. The National Weather Service reports…”
    Dougherty and the coffee arrived two minutes later. The look in her eyes told Corso something was amiss. “Problem?”
    She waited until the waitress was out of range and then leaned across the table. “There’s this woman in there. Absolutely shit-faced. Puking her guts up in the sink.” She waved a hand. “And there’s like no privacy, no nothing. I had to go so bad…and she’s obviously not going anywhere…so I had to drop my drawers right in front of her.”
    “I take it she was impressed with your artwork?”
    “I think the sight of my ass may have sobered her up.”
    She looked down at the cup of coffee in front of her. Frowned. Looked at Corso.
    “I didn’t think these guys could manage a double grande no-fat hazelnut latte, so I just ordered coffee,” Corso said.
    She shrugged in resignation. Took a sip. Winced. “I can’t drink this,” she said.
    The TV newscaster droned. “President Bush has proposed a national campaign to promote abstinence among teens. The president said today…”
    Whatever sobering effect the sight of Dougherty’s tattoos may have had on the other woman had apparently been short-lived. She lurched out of the women’s room like she was on ice and banged facefirst into the far wall. Somewhere in her sixties, she’d teased her jet-black hair straight up. The tangled mane seemed to float above her head like smoke from an oil fire. She’d used that indoor tanning cream, which had dyed her pouchy face and neck the color of a ripe tangerine.
    Using both walls for balance, she tightroped her way out through the archway into the diner,