The Mckettrick Way. Linda Miller Lael

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      “I’ve been working real hard to repress that image,” Brad said. “Thanks a lot for the reminder.”

      “Okay, forget the underwear,” Phil shot back, without missing a beat. “But think of the money!”

      “I’ve already got more of that than I need, Phil, and so do you, so spare me the riff where your grandchildren are homeless waifs picking through garbage behind the supermarket.”

      “I’ve used that one, huh?” Phil asked.

      “Oh, yeah,” Brad answered.

      “What are you doing, right this moment?”

      “I’m headed for the Dixie Dog Drive-In.”

      “The what?”

      “Goodbye, Phil.”

      “What are you going to do at the Dixie-Whatever Drive-In that you couldn’t do in Music City? Or Vegas?”

      “You wouldn’t understand,” Brad said. “And I can’t say I blame you, because I don’t really understand it myself.”

      Back in the day, he and Meg used to meet at the Dixie Dog, by tacit agreement, when either of them had been away. It had been some kind of universe-thing, purely intuitive. He guessed he wanted to see if it still worked—and he’d be damned if he’d try to explain that to Phil.

      “Look,” Phil said, revving up for another sales pitch, “I can’t put these casino people off forever. You’re riding high right now, but things are bound to cool off. I’ve got to tell them something—”

      “Tell them ‘thanks, but no thanks,’” Brad suggested. This time, he broke the connection.

      Phil, being Phil, tried to call twice before he finally gave up.

      Passing familiar landmarks, Brad told himself he ought to turn around. The old days were gone, things had ended badly between him and Meg anyhow, and she wasn’t going to be at the Dixie Dog.

      He kept driving.

      He went by the Welcome To Indian Rock sign, and the Roadhouse, a popular beer-and-burger stop for truckers, tourists and locals, and was glad to see the place was still open. He slowed for Main Street, smiled as he passed Cora’s Curl and Twirl, squinted at the bookshop next door. That was new.

      He frowned. Things changed, places changed.

      What if the Dixie Dog had closed down?

      What if it was boarded up, with litter and sagebrush tumbling through a deserted parking lot?

      And what the hell did it matter, anyhow?

      Brad shoved a hand through his hair. Maybe Phil and everybody else was right—maybe he was crazy to turn down the Vegas deal. Maybe he would end up sitting in the barn, serenading a bunch of horses.

      He rounded a bend, and there was the Dixie Dog, still open. Its big neon sign, a giant hot dog, was all lit up and going through its corny sequence—first it was covered in red squiggles of light, meant to suggest catsup, and then yellow, for mustard. There were a few cars lined up in the drive-through lane, a few more in the parking lot.

      Brad pulled into one of the slots next to a speaker and rolled down the truck window.

      “Welcome to the Dixie Dog Drive-In,” a youthful female voice chirped over the bad wiring. “What can I get you today?”

      Brad hadn’t thought that far, but he was starved. He peered at the light-up menu box under the chunky metal speaker. Then the obvious choice struck him and he said, “I’ll take a Dixie Dog,” he said. “Hold the chili and onions.”

      “Coming right up” was the cheerful response. “Anything to drink?”

      “Chocolate shake,” he decided. “Extra thick.”

      His cell phone rang again.

      He ignored it again.

      The girl thanked him and roller-skated out with the order about five minutes later.

      When she wheeled up to the driver’s-side window, smiling, her eyes went wide with recognition, and she dropped the tray with a clatter.

      Silently, Brad swore. Damn if he hadn’t forgotten he was famous.

      The girl, a skinny thing wearing too much eye makeup, immediately started to cry. “I’m sorry!” she sobbed, squatting to gather up the mess.

      “It’s okay,” Brad answered quietly, leaning to look down at her, catching a glimpse of her plastic name tag. “It’s okay, Mandy. No harm done.”

      “I’ll get you another dog and a shake right away, Mr. O’Ballivan!”

      “Mandy?”

      She stared up at him pitifully, sniffling. Thanks to the copious tears, most of the goop on her eyes had slid south. “Yes?”

      “When you go back inside, could you not mention seeing me?”

      “But you’re Brad O’Ballivan!”

      “Yeah,” he answered, suppressing a sigh. “I know.”

      She was standing up again by then, the tray of gathered debris clasped in both hands. She seemed to sway a little on her rollers. “Meeting you is just about the most important thing that’s ever happened to me in my whole entire life. I don’t know if I could keep it a secret even if I tried!”

      Brad leaned his head against the back of the truck seat and closed his eyes. “Not forever, Mandy,” he said. “Just long enough for me to eat a Dixie Dog in peace.”

      She rolled a little closer. “You wouldn’t happen to have a picture you could autograph for me, would you?”

      “Not with me,” Brad answered. There were boxes of publicity pictures in storage, along with the requisite T-shirts, slick concert programs and other souvenirs commonly sold on the road. He never carried them, much to Phil’s annoyance.

      “You could sign this napkin, though,” Mandy said. “It’s only got a little chocolate on the corner.”

      Brad took the paper napkin, and her order pen, and scrawled his name. Handed both items back through the window.

      “Now I can tell my grandchildren I spilled your lunch all over the pavement at the Dixie Dog Drive-In, and here’s my proof.” Mandy beamed, waggling the chocolate-stained napkin.

      “Just imagine,” Brad said. The slight irony in his tone was wasted on Mandy, which was probably a good thing.

      “I won’t tell anybody I saw you until you drive away,” Mandy said with eager resolve. “I think I can last that long.”

      “That would be good,” Brad told her.

      She turned and whizzed СКАЧАТЬ