Midnight Crossroad

“Hi, neighbor,” he said. “I came to return your stuff. Thanks again for the cookies and the lemonade.” He held out the plate and pitcher, as if he had to provide evidence of his good intentions. He tried not to stare too obviously at the shelves in the shop, which were laden with things he considered absolute junk: books about the supernatural, ghost stories, and guides to tarot readings and dream interpretation. There were hanging sun catchers and dream catchers. There were two mortar-and-pestle sets that were pretty nice, some herb-gardening guides, alleged athames, tarot cards, Ouija boards, and other accoutrements of the New Age occultist.

On the other hand, Manfred liked the two squashy flowered armchairs sitting opposite each other in the center of the floor, a magazine or two on the small table between them. Fiji stood up, and he saw she was flushed. It didn’t take a psychic to tell she was really irritated about something.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Oh, this damn spell,” she said, as if she were talking about the weather. “My great-aunt left it to me, but her handwriting was atrocious, and I’ve tried three different ingredients because I can’t figure out what she meant.”

Manfred had not realized that Fiji openly admitted she was a witch, and for a second he was surprised. But she had the talent, and if she wanted to lay herself open to judgment like that, okay. He’d encountered much weirder shit. He set down the plate and the pitcher on the counter. “Let me see,” he offered.

“Oh, I don’t mean to trouble you,” she said, obviously flustered. She had on reading glasses, and her brown eyes looked large and innocent behind the lenses.

“Think of it as a thank-you note for the cookies.” He smiled, and she handed over the paper.

“Damn,” he said, after a moment’s examination. Her great-aunt’s handwriting looked like a dirty-footed chicken had danced across the page. “Okay, which word?”

She pointed to the scribble that was third on the list. He looked at it carefully. “Comfrey,” he said. “Is that an herb?”

Her eyes closed with relief. “Oh, yes, and I have some growing out back,” she said. “Thanks so much!” She beamed at him.

“No problem.” He smiled back. “I’m going down to Home Cookin for dinner. You want to come?”

He’d had no intention of asking her, and he hoped he wasn’t sending the wrong message (if a casual dinner invitation could be the wrong message), but there was something vulnerable about Fiji that invited kindness.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m out of anything remotely interesting to eat. And it’s Sunday, right? That’s fried chicken or meat loaf day.”

After she locked the shop (now Manfred knew he was not the only one who continued his city ways) and patted the cat on its head, they walked west. Manfred had gotten into the habit of casting a glance down the driveway that ran to the back of the pawnshop. Though his view wasn’t as good from the south side of the street, he did it now.

Because he was an observant kind of guy, Manfred had noticed soon after he’d moved in that there were usually three vehicles parked behind Midnight Pawn. Bobo Winthrop drove a blue Ford F-150 pickup, probably three years old. The second car was a Corvette. Manfred was no car buff, but he was sure this was a classic car, and he was sure it was worth huge bucks. It was usually covered with a tarp, but Manfred had caught a glimpse of it one night when he was putting out the trash. The Vette was sweet. The third car was relatively anonymous. Maybe a Honda Civic? Something small and four-door and silver. It wasn’t shiny new, and it wasn’t old.

Manfred hoped the hot chick, Olivia, drove the Vette. But that would be almost too good, like pancakes with real maple syrup and real butter. And who was the second tenant? Manfred thought the smart thing to do would be to wait until someone volunteered the information.

“How do you get enough traffic through the store?” he asked Fiji, because he’d been silent long enough. “For that matter, how does anyone in Midnight keep a business open? The only busy place is the Gas N Go.”

“This is Texas,” she said. “People are used to driving a long way for anything. I’m the only magical-type place for—well, I don’t know how big an area, but big. And people crave something different. I always get a decent crowd on my Thursday nights. They come from forty or fifty miles away, some of ’em. I do some Internet business, too.”

“You don’t sell love charms or fertility charms out your back door?” he asked, teasing.

“Great-Aunt Mildred did something like that.” She looked at him with an expression that dared him to make something of it.

“I’m cool with that,” Manfred said immediately.

She only nodded, and then they were at the restaurant. He opened the door for her, and she went in ahead of him, her expression somewhat chilly, as far as Manfred could interpret it.

Home Cookin was almost bursting with activity this evening. Joe and Chuy were sitting at the big round table. There was a husky man with them, someone he hadn’t met, jiggling a fussy baby. Manfred noticed cars far more than he did babies (and shoes and fingernails), but he thought this infant was the same size as the one he’d seen the first time he’d been in Home Cookin. That made the chances good that this was Madonna’s baby; he figured the man was Madonna’s, too.

As the electronic chime sounded and the door swung shut behind them, Manfred looked to his right. The two tables for two by the front window were occupied, and one of the four booths on the west wall. Reverend Emilio Sheehan (the Rev) sat by himself at his usual table, not the one next to the door but the second one. And his back was to the entrance, a placement that practically screamed “leave me alone.” This evening he had brought a Bible to read. It lay open on the table before him. Two men, not natives of Midnight, were at the table closest to the door. They were preoccupied with their drinks and menus.

Though Manfred was sure he hadn’t met all the townspeople, he knew the family sitting in the U-shaped booth was also just passing through. The four of them looked too . . . too shiny to be residents. Mama had subtly streaked hair, breast implants, and expensive-casual slacks and sweater. Dad was wearing rich-rancher clothes (gleaming leather boots and a pristine cowboy hat). The kids—a boy about three or four, a girl maybe two years older—were looking around them for something to do.

“Excuse me!” the mother called to Madonna, who was pouring tea for Chuy. “Do you have some colors or games for the children?”