I take a few deep breaths, leaning against the counter. My knuckles have gone white from the pressure of holding them so tightly during my conversation with Suzie.
“Order up,” George calls softly from the kitchen.
“You heard all of that, I take it?” I ask as I collect the plates of steaming food.
George nods solemnly. “It’s not your fault,” he assures me. “She needs to want to save herself before she’ll accept any help. You know that giving her money isn’t going to do any good.”
“I know,” I agree, shaking my head. “It’s just hard to see her like that. In spite of everything that’s happened and the part that she’s played, we grew up together. She was my friend,” I say simply. I can feel the tears start to come to my eyes and I refuse to let them fall, so I hurry out of the kitchen to deliver the order to Mr. Tall and Mr. Short, who are still not talking to each other.
I bang the plates down on the table, all energy for the “smiling waitress” front gone. All the “perky” I had walked out the door with Suzie. “I’ll be right back with your coffees,” I mumble, turning to go.
“Miss...” Mr. Short says, his voice low, and I’m so surprised to hear him speak that I stop dead.
“Winters,” I supply, and automatically stick my hand out for a handshake. The men look between each other and seem to decide that I’m not an immediate threat, so Mr. Short takes my hand and shakes it.
“Miss Winters,” he says, in a voice that seems almost too deep to be coming out of such a small man. “Who was that girl that was just in here?” he asks, trying to appear nonchalant and failing miserably.
“An old friend,” I say, measuring my words carefully. “Why do you ask?” I look between the two men.
“You two didn’t seem very friendly,” Mr. Tall notes.
“Was that a question?” I ask, feeling and sounding rankled. Why do I feel like I am the one under surveillance?
“No offense intended, Miss Winters,” Mr. Short interrupts smoothly, shooting Mr. Tall a look that would freeze hell over.
It occurs to me then that I had the dynamic between the two men completely wrong. “You’re his boss,” I say to Mr. Short.
“We’re just truck drivers, ma’am.” Mr. Tall coughs nervously. “We drive in shifts, no one is anyone’s boss, little lady.”
“Right.” I nod, showing just how little I believe them. “I’ll be back with your coffees,” I say, realizing that thinking the Feds were just going to announce themselves to me was probably one of the least realistic ideas that had ever crossed my mind.
“Wait a second, there’s no rush.” Mr. Short shoots out an arm to stop me in my tracks. “We don’t come through this town very much,” he starts, “But we’ve heard a lot of rumors. It’d be good to get an idea of if there’s any truth in them from someone that knows the lay of the land.”
“What kind of rumors?” I ask, crossing my arms and playing along with their game for now. It seems to be the only way we’re going to get anywhere.
“Oh, you know, the usual. Urban legends, that kind of thing,” Mr. Tall shrugs and his boss gives him a warning look.
“What, like the boogeyman?” I ask, amused.
Mr Short looks up at me, clearly assessing if I know something or if I’m just a smart-mouthed waitress. “Not quite; something a little more tangible,” he says slowly. “We heard there was an accident ‘round here a couple of weeks back involving a truck. We just wanted to make sure we weren’t in any danger coming through here,” he says, spreading his hands.
“Is that a question?” I ask, refusing to let these two men psych me out. I’ve stood up to the Bleeding Angels—I’m not going to give these guys what they want unless I get something out of it too. I scan the street outside, checking that there isn’t anyone hanging around that’s likely to see me talking to these men. The last thing I need is the Angels getting jittery about what I may have said to the Feds.
“You’re a bit of a firecracker, aren’t you?” Mr. Short asks, sounding more than a little impressed.
“I don’t know about that. I just have a pretty good bullshit detector,” I note. Mr. Tall looks horrified at my response but Mr. Short just laughs and surveys me again like he’s trying to figure me out. “My dad was a cop,” I say by way of explanation, and both men nod as if this makes some sort of sense to them.
“So, about those rumors,” Mr. Tall starts before I cut him off.
“Look, can we just get to it? It’s late and I’ve had a really bad night,” I tell them both. “Now are we going to cut the whole ‘I’m just a lonely trucker’ crap or shall I go get you those coffees?” I ask, before wondering if I’ve gone too far.
Mr. Short pauses for a few seconds, probably waiting to see if I’m going to back down. When I don’t, he says, “You should go get those coffees. It’ll look better than you just standing here chatting with us,” he says with authority.
“Alright then,” I reply, keeping my voice as level and calm as possible as I head to the filter machine, trying to keep my knees from knocking.
When I return to the booth, the men seem to have come to some kind of agreement. “So what is it that you think you know, Miss Winters?” Mr. Short asks.
“That you’re Feds. You’re here to investigate what happened with the army truck and you clearly think there’s more to the ‘accident’ than meets the eye,” I say simply without pausing for breath.
“Feds!” Mr. Tall exclaims a little too theatrically. “Us, Feds. That’s a good one,” he laughs, but his laughter fades as he sees the expression on his boss’s face.
“If you’re as sharp as you seem to be then you’ll know we can’t tell you if you’re right or not,” Mr. Short says slowly. “We don’t know enough about you or what you know that might be of help to us. The mere fact that you’re standing here tells me that you have some information you’d like to share.”
“I do,” I reply. “But I also know what will happen to me if anyone finds out that I’ve been talking to you. You think I’m sharp? Well how sharp would it be for me to run the risk of ratting myself out to some guys who can’t even tell me who they really are.” I shrug. “So if you want me to tell you anything, I’m going to need to see some ID.”
The men sit in stunned silence for a few moments. “Well, you’ve got a set of balls on you, Miss Winters, I’ll give you that.” Mr. Short nods as he digs into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Sir, you can’t be serious,” Mr. Tall exclaims.
Mr. Short doesn’t even grace him with a reply. “Agent Warner.” He flips open a little black wallet showing his photograph and the magical letters: F.B.I. In a way, I’m surprised to see that they’re just like they are in the movies.
“Alright, Agent Warner,” I say, walking away from them and settling myself behind the counter. I start refiling the sugar pourers so no one looking from the outside sees me loitering around their table. “What do you want to know?” I ask. We’re only about 6 feet away, but it’s enough to give the illusion of distance to anyone outside.
“I want to know if the name Bleeding Angels means anything to you,” he asks, fixing his attention on the cold omelet in front of him which he starts to eat slowly.
“Yes. Next question,” I say quickly as I fill up another container.
“What do you know about them?” he asks, pushing the green salad leaves around his plate.
“How long have you got?” I reply, shrugging. “A direct question would be more helpful. I’m not interested in whatever psych test you’re trying to put me through by just letting me talk,” I tell them, and I’m told that I’m correct by the choking sound that Mr. Tall makes.
“Fair enough,” his boss says. “Do you believe they’re involved in illegal activity?”
“Yes.”
“What kinds of illegal activity do you believe they’re involved in?” Warner asks.
“You name it, they’ve probably done it,” I reply vaguely.
“Do you have any proof of any of these activities?” Warner asks, taking another bite of his omelet and nodding absently at how good it is.
“Other than my own accounts and those of anyone else you manage to get to talk around here, no,” I say, realizing where this is going.
“What about the army truck? What do you know about that?” Warner asks.
“I know that it wasn’t an accident,” I reply confidently.
“Again, do you have any proof other than your own account of events?” Warner asks.
“No.” I shake my head. I ask myself how I could have been so stupid as to think that my word would be enough to take down the Bleeding Angels. This wasn’t a fairy story—the Feds weren’t going to just come in, wave their magic wands and presto! All would be well in Painted Rock.
“Would you be willing to assist us further in our enquiries?” Warner asks, pulling out his wallet and counting out some dollar bills.
“Yes,” I say, “But you need to be quick. They’re about to patch another member against his will.” I come across more emotional than I have all night.
“No doubt,” Warner replies dryly. “But these things take time and without hard evidence of wrongdoing, our hands are tied,” he explains, dropping the bills on the table and signaling to Mr. Tall that it’s time to go.
“That’s it?” I ask, not able to avoid looking at them. “You’re just leaving?”
“Thank you for your help, Miss Winters,” Warner says, looking at the ground in front of him and pretending to tie his shoelaces. “We’ll be in touch.”
“You’ll be in touch when?” I ask, desperately. “You need to do something now.”
“We’re working on it, Miss Winters. Believe me, we’re working on it,” Warner replies. “We’ll be seeing you.” With that, they’re both out the door.