Missionary Stew by Ross Thomas

birth?”
    “Ohio,” he said, lying automatically. He had been born in Indiana. In Terre Haute.
    The immigration official nodded and Drew Meade walked across the border into his native land, the country which he felt had betrayed him, although he never thought of it in quite those terms. When he railed to himself alone at night in cheap hotel rooms, he railed against having been handed the shitty end of the stick, which, arguably, is a form of betrayal.
    The first thing Drew Meade did upon returning to the United States after an absence of thirteen years was to seek out a McDonald's and order two Big Macs, a chocolate shake, and an order of French-fried potatoes. After gobbling it all down he talked one of the sullen sixteen-year-olds behind the counter out of a couple of handfuls of change and then spent an hour walking around Calexico looking for a pay phone that worked.
    It took several conversations with various operators, but Meade finally got the number he wanted. While it was ringing he dropped in $2 worth of quarters against the long-distance operator's stern advice. The number was answered on the fourth ring by a hollow hello. It was a woman's voice.
    “Mr. Replogle, please.”
    “Oh my God,” said the hollow voice that belonged to the newly widowed Maureen Replogle.
    “Is Mr. Replogle there?”
    “You don’t know, do you?”
    “Know?” Meade growled. “Know what? Is he there or not?”
    “Jack's…gone.”
    “Gone? Gone where?”
    “Jack is…dead.” The news was followed by a sob.
    “Well, shit,” Meade said.
    Maureen Replogle refused to hear that. “The funeral was early this afternoon,” she said. “This very afternoon. He had a host of friends. They’ve been so very kind. I’m all alone now, of course. All alone.”
    “When did he die, Mrs. Replogle?”
    “It was only yesterday. Yesterday morning. He and Draper were driving up to Breckenridge. We have a lodge up there. Jack likes to ski, but I’ve never really cared for it. There was an accident. Poor Jack. Dear Jack.”
    “What kind of accident?”
    “You know, in the car.”
    “You said Draper was with him. Is that Draper Haere?”
    “Do you know Draper? Draper didn’t stay for the funeral. He doesn’t go to funerals, you know. I’ve always found Draper rather strange, even as a child.”
    “Where's Haere now?”
    “He flew back to California.”
    “Frisco, L.A., where?”
    “No, not Los Angeles. Santa Monica. Well, Venice actually, I suppose. The air is ever so much better there.” “Okay. Thanks.”
    “It was very kind of you to call. So many people have been so very kind.”
    Drew Meade hung up. The phone rang. He picked it up and cautiously said hello. It was the long-distance operator, advising Meade that he owed an additional sixty-five cents. Meade told her to fuck off and hung up again.
    At the Calexico bus station, the first Trailways out was bound for Redlands. Meade bought a ticket. From Redlands he would bus his way up and over to Santa Barbara and then come down into Los Angeles from the north. With any luck he would be there late that evening or, at the outside, early tomorrow morning. The bus to Redlands would leave in ten minutes. Meade bought provisions for the trip. They consisted of two packs of Camels, a giant-size Mr. Goodbar, and a pint of Jim Beam. The sombrero he shoved into a waste bin.
    They had performed their early-afternoon sexual acrobatics in the Sir Galahad, a beachside motel on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica just south of Pico. They had giggled for a while at an X-rated film the motel supplied for $3.50 over its closed-circuit television system. The film involved a threesome, and while it was still running they had made love for almost thirty minutes. Now both lay naked on the bed, watching the film with a kind of clinical detachment.
    “You want to see how this shit ends?” he said.
    She shook her head. “Not especially.”
    Draper Haere rose, crossed to the TV set, and switched it off.