OWL BURGER

  Jones’ eyes opened a slit.

  ‘There he is.’ Said the woman looking down at him. She wore a police uniform and a brimmed hat.

  Jones was lying on a table in the dining room of a restaurant. The last thing he remembered was the explosion of the mobile home on the walk toward town.

  ‘Police?’ Jones asked.

  We have a lady sheriff.’ The man next to the officer said with a comforting smile. The man was tall and, while advancing in age, was obviously fit. Shorn, gray hair protruded from the edges of his Firdale Timber company trucker cap. He had the fresh look of someone just out of the barber’s chair and smelled of pine cologne. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell to which to awaken.

  ‘So,’ the sheriff began, business-like, ‘We have some questions.’

  Jones raised his head from the table and looked around the room. Most of the other tables were occupied by diners, many seeming unbothered by the man stretched out on a table in the middle of the room and continuing with their meal. Scales, the man with the dark beard from the Christmas tree lot sat alone at a table by the wall. He winked when Jones made eye contact.

  ‘So,’ the sheriff continued, ‘You were saying some odd things while you were out.’

  Jones looked at her, puzzled.

  ‘Hot cock.’ The sheriff said and then flushed a little.

  The man next to her in the Firdale Timber hat seemed embarrassed on Jones’ behalf.

  ‘You kept mumbling about hot cock.’ The sheriff said.

  Jones leaned up on an elbow.

  ‘Caulk.’ He corrected, emphasizing the letter ‘L’ in the word. ‘It’s where I work.’ And then, remembering, he added. ‘Worked. Can I get up?’

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The sheriff and the man in the Firdale Timber hat each took an arm and helped Jones up off the table and into one of the chairs next to it. Then they sat down with him.

  ‘I’m Deforest.’ The man in the trucker cap extended a hand. ‘Do you need the hospital?’

  Jones shook his head slightly.

  Now that he was upright he had a better look at the room. There was a band on stage, seemingly on a brief break while the medical emergency played out but now beginning to tune instruments, rifle a drum beat, and soundcheck the mics.

  Deforest gave them a thumbs up and the band started into ELO’s ‘Sweet Talkin’ Woman’. They were good. Almost note to note with the original.

  ‘So,’ the sheriff continued, having to raise her voice above the music, ‘There’s quite a bit of cash in your backpack.’

  ‘Did you find her?’ Jones asked, remembering Essie with whom he had walked with up the hill to the mobile home.

  The sheriff didn’t understand.

  ‘Why all the cash?’ She pressed.

  ‘It’s mine.’ Jones answered without elaborating.

  ‘And you were delivering it to who?’ The sheriff assumed.

  ‘No one.’ Jones answered. ‘Did you find her body?’

  ‘Body?’ The sheriff squinted. ‘So why blow up Fred’s house?’

  She pointed a finger at the table just behind where Deforest sat. Now Jones could see a younger, less well-groomed version of Deforest. He wore the same Firdale Timber cap. And that’s where the similarity in wardrobe ended. Fred wore a tracksuit. A dirty wisp of a mustache graced his upper lip.

  ‘That’s Fred.’ The sheriff said.

  Fred stared at Jones. It was short of a glare and more a look of, ‘Yes. Why did you blow up my house?’

  ‘We,’ Deforest produced a red bandana from under the table, ‘Found this in your hand.’

  The statement carried a gravity like it should mean something to Jones.

  ‘She just gave it to me.’ Jones said.

  'Who?' Asked the sheriff.

  ‘The girl.’ Jones said. ‘The girl who blew up in the house.’

  The sheriff exchanged a look with Deforest and then turned back to Jones.

  ‘There was no one in the house.’ She said.

  Deforest laid a hand on the sheriff’s shoulder.

  ‘Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.’ He said, as though he held final say on what should be done with Jones. ‘How about,’ Deforest looked at Jones, ‘We step out onto the deck where we can talk a little more easily.’

  When the sheriff rose from her seat with them, Deforest motioned for her to remain behind.

  Jones stood and began following Deforest to the double doors leading to the deck. When he looked back to the table, the sheriff was making notes in her duty pad while, at the next table over, Fred maintained an unblinking stare.