Stuart Woods: Heat

The following day at sunset he reached the city limits of St. Clair, Idaho, and checked into the town’s only motel. He gorged himself once more on pizza and television and slept soundly. The next morning was clear and frosty as he left the motel.

Fun was over; it was time to go to work.

Jesse walked down the main street in the early morning light and took note of St. Clair. Low clouds hung over the town and the dim light made it seem earlier than it was. There was only a single block of Main Street — a couple of dozen stores, two filling stations, newspaper office, doctor’s office, veterinarian. The buildings were mostly red brick, with tin awnings out front — looked as if they’d been built around the turn of the century. The place was like a lot of small Georgia towns Jesse had seen. One difference, though: outside the police station, a modern building, there were five squad cars parked. As he walked past, four uniformed men came out of the building, got into the cars and drove off. Must be the early shift, Jesse thought. He also thought that five squad cars were a lot for a town this size.

He stopped and peered through the window of something called Nora’s Café. A woman was busy behind the counter, and she was alone in the place. He tried the front door; it was locked, but when the woman saw him she came and let him in.

“Morning,” she said.

“Did I get here too early?” Jesse asked.

“Seven on the dot,” she replied, looking at her watch. “Coffee?”

“Thanks, yes.”

“Take your pick,” she said, waving at a row of booths along the wall.

A boy walked in with a stack of newspapers and put them on the counter. Jesse picked one up, left some change on the counter and sat down in a booth.

The woman came over with his coffee. “New in town?”

“Brand new; just passing through, really.”

“I’m Nora; I run the joint.”

“I’m Jesse. How you doing?”

“I’m okay. You’re not from around here, are you? Not with that accent.”

“Naw, I’m a hillbilly, from Georgia.”

“They got hills in Georgia?”

“They got mountains; not like the ones around here, though.”

“What do you feel like for breakfast, Jesse?”

“Two scrambled, bacon... I don’t guess you’ve got grits?”

Nora laughed aloud. “You’re a long way from home, Jesse; we got hash browns.”

“That’ll do.”

“Toast? English muffin?”

“English muffin.”

“Juice?”

“Orange.”

“Good choice; I squeeze it myself.” She left him with his newspaper.

Jesse read through the paper carefully; it was as good an introduction to the town as anything. There was a problem with the sewage treatment plant, and it looked like property taxes might go up; a main-street merchant had died at sixty-eight; the high school football team had won its first game; and St. Clair Wood Products had gotten a big order for plywood and chipboard from a company building a new ski resort near Park City, Utah. An unsigned editorial blasted a gun control bill now in the state legislature; letters to the editor dealt with the need for new playground equipment at the grammar school, a complaint about drunk drivers in the county and a yard sale at the First Church on Saturday.

Jesse sipped his coffee and watched half a dozen customers wander in and take booths or stools at the counter. The sound of bacon sizzling was pleasant to the ear, and nobody put any money in the jukebox across the room, for which he was thankful. He was not fond of rock and roll or country music.

Nora came with his breakfast, and he forced himself to eat slowly. He had lost a lot of weight in prison, and he thought he’d better watch his eating, or he’d gain it all back. He’d finished his breakfast and had accepted a second cup of coffee when a man in a policeman’s uniform entered the café and took a stool at the counter. He and Nora exchanged pleasantries, and she poured him a cup of coffee. There was another, quieter exchange between the two that Jesse caught in his peripheral vision, then the cop walked over to Jesse’s booth, carrying his coffee.

“Morning,” he said to Jesse.

Jesse looked up. “Good morning to you,” he replied.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Take a pew,” Jesse said.

The cop eased into the booth opposite Jesse and set down his coffee. He stuck a hand across the table. “I’m Pat Casey,” he said. “I’m the law around these parts.”

The name registered from his briefing; this was one of Jack Gene Coldwater’s top two men, one of the ones he was going to nail. “Jesse Barron,” Jesse replied, shaking the man’s hand.

“Don’t recall seeing you before,” Casey said.

“Naw, I just rolled in last night,” Jesse replied. “Probably move on tomorrow, the next day. Thought I’d take a rest from the road; I’ve been driving for a week.”

“Where you headed?”

Jesse leaned back in the booth and sighed. “I was thinking about Oregon. Hear that’s nice country.”

“It is; I’ve been there.”

“Pretty nice around here, too.”

“We like it. I can’t place your accent.”

“Georgia, north Georgia. Town called Toccoa, up in the mountains. Hillbilly country.”

“I thought that was Tennessee and Kentucky.”

“Us hillbillies are all over.”

Casey grinned. “You’re a long way from home, boy.”

Jesse let himself look a little sad. “Boy, I guess I am.”

“What caused you to up and leave Georgia?”

Jesse shrugged. “Hard times, I guess. I had a little business went under.”

“What kind of business?”

“Construction. Remodeling and additions mostly. Folks weren’t spending their money like they used to; I guess it’s the recession.”

“Got any family back there?”

“Not anymore,” Jesse said, gazing into the middle distance. “Oh, I got a granddaddy, but he’s in a home. He doesn’t know anybody anymore, not even me.”

“How’d you travel in here, Jesse?”

“I got a pickup over at the motel.”

“You got any means of support, Jesse?”

Jesse looked up from his eggs. “Well, I haven’t done any work for a few weeks, but I put a little by.”

“How little?”

“I guess I could get by two or three months, if I stretched it. You’re not looking to get me for vagrancy, are you?”

Casey grinned. “Not at the moment. I wouldn’t want you to become a drain on the public purse, though.”

Jesse changed his tone just a little. “Listen, Pat, I’ve never been a drain on nobody in my life; I worked since I was twelve, and I haven’t given it up yet.”

“You got some ID, Jesse?”

Jesse produced a wallet and tossed it onto the table between them. “I guess you’re the welcoming committee in St. Clair, huh?”

Casey went through the wallet carefully, looking at the driver’s license, credit card and bits of paper. Jesse had put that package together very carefully.

“Looks like your license expires five years from last week,” Casey said.

“I just renewed it.”

Casey nodded. “You ever been in jail, Jesse?”

“Not to speak of.”

“Now, what does that mean?”

“I had a little conversation with the sheriff when I was eighteen or nineteen. We haven’t spoken much since.”

Casey nodded. “Well, I guess I can’t hold your youth against you.” He peered closely at Jesse’s face. “Looks like you’ve been roughed up a little.”

“Car wreck,” Jesse said. “I spent a few days in the hospital.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Nope; the other guy was though, the nigger.”

“That’s not a politically correct word these days,” Casey said.