Chump Change by G. M. Ford Page B

I’ve got stashed in the back,” I said. The kid looked so horrified, I headed him off at the pass. “They’re all legal, man. I’ve got permits for every one of them, but that old boy would have kept us down at the cop shop until he checked and double-checked on every one of them, and sitting around some hick police station is definitely not how I plan on spending my day.”
    He seemed surprised. “You think we’re going to need weapons?”
    “I think it’s better to have them and not use them than it is to need them and not have them, if that makes any sense to you.”
    He said it did.
    By the time I’d shoveled the last of the fried potatoes into my overstuffed face, the place had cleared out. Far as I could tell, in this town, if you were still eating breakfast at seven, you automatically qualified for full malingerer status.
    Across the room, the younger waitress removed whatever elastic contrivance was holding her hair back and shook her auburn tresses out. Our waitress had her head in the kitchen door, giving orders in Spanish.
    Wasn’t till we had the place to ourselves that I’d noticed that the whole Chat ’n’ Chew Cafe operation, maybe sixty seats or so, was staffed by only four people. Our waitress and the younger girl, who, now that I looked at her, looked a whole lot like the older woman, and two Mexican guys manning the kitchen.
    The younger woman had corralled her locks again and was doing that ponytail thing they do with a rubber band, when suddenly the front door burst open and banged back against the wall. Nobody came in.
    “Ginny,” a voice called from outside.
    Took the older woman about a second and a half to get over to the open door.
    “Get outta here, Boyd,” she said to somebody standing outside. “Swear to God. You violate that restraining order, I’ll call the cops on you. I’ve done it before; I’ll do it again.” She kicked the wall in frustration.
    “Ginny,” the voice called again.
    The younger woman finished putting her hair up and leaned back against the counter. “Go away, Boyd,” she yelled toward the open door. “You ain’t allowed to be here. You know that.”
    “Ain’t allowed to come inside is what it says,” the voice from outside said.
    The older woman closed and locked the door. Turned out the CLOSED sign.
    She looked over at Keith and me. “My daughter’s ex,” she said apologetically. “We got a restraining order out against him, but every time he gets oiled up, he comes round and starts bothering her again.”
    An uncomfortable minute passed. No more yelling from the street. I figured things had settled down, so I forked the last of my scrambled eggs into my mouth. I had em about half-chewed when a commotion broke out back in the kitchen. The bang of a door, raised voices, shouts in Spanish, rising above the clatter of pots and pans, in the second before the kitchen door swung open and what hadda be Boyd stumbled into the dining room.
    He was skinny as a rail and about as attractive. Twenty-five or so, maybe six-two, wearing the uniform of the day: plaid flannel shirt over a T-shirt, jeans, and dirty green John Deere hat sitting crooked on his head. Looked like he’d first needed a haircut about a month ago.
    “You get the hell outta here, Boyd,” the younger woman said.
    The older woman tried to step into his path, but he swept her aside and started across the room toward his ex. “Goddammit, Boyd . . . you . . .” she shouted at his back.
    I’d already dropped my fork and was levering myself out of the seat when Boyd grabbed the young woman by the arm. She grimaced in pain.
    “Oooooow . . . you’re hurting me, Boyd,” she said.
    Wasn’t rocket science. This was one of those situations where you couldn’t just sit there and wait for this little soap opera to play out. Lord knew, after that Clarkston cop this morning, I wasn’t looking for any more drama, but there was no way I could let this continue. I started to