Living Dead at Zigfreidt & Roy by Axel Howerton Read Free Book Online

 
     
Living Dead
at Zigfreidt & Roy

    The old cowboy
tumbled through the front door with a crash and the tinkling of the
overhead bell. He slammed his back to the door as his eyes darted
across the expanse of the diner. Struggling to catch his breath, he
jerked around to look back past the café curtains and through the
big glass windows that made up the front wall. The place was dead
silent, except for the low caterwaul of George Jones coming from
the tinny speakers in the ceiling.
    The old man
pulled himself up to his full standing six-and-a-half feet. He was
lean and taut with ropey muscle, but his face wore every one of his
seventy-plus years. He smoothed the downslopes of his oversized
moustache, straightened the white-straw cowboy hat on his head and
wiped his bloody hands on the front of his stained white shirt. He
cast a single cautious glance back toward the door before striding
to the lunch counter, seemingly oblivious to the stares and
whispers around him. He parked himself on a well-used stool, one
foot planted on the floor as he hooked the worn heel of the other
boot in the footrest. The old man shifted his weight as he reached
behind him and pulled a gleaming revolver from the back of his
jeans. He placed it on the counter, resting his hand over the
polished wood handle. Two older women in a booth shared frantic
whispers back and forth, then pried themselves from their seats,
fumbling with their handbags as they rushed out the door with the
overhead bell ushering them on their way.
    The cook
loomed behind the counter, all thick arms and thick neck. He was
bottom-heavy and short-legged, a Grizzly in an apron. He stared
down at the old man from blunt eyes canopied by dark and heavy
brows.
    “I don’t need
any trouble in here, pal. I can call and have the cops here
in–”“Can I get some damn coffee?” the cowboy interrupted. His thick
West-Texas twang betrayed a slight tremble.
    The cook stood
stiff, one hand hidden beneath the counter. “This ain’t the kind of
place you wanna try anything funny, old man. You come in here like
the fucking Alamo and ask for coffee? Pass that pistol over and
I'll think about it.”
    “I ain’t
startin’ no trouble. I just want some goddamn coffee. .” The cowboy
glared from under the brim of his hat. “I’m from Texas, son. I
ain’t givin' my gun to no man. I just don’t want to be settin’ on
the goddamned thing all night.”
    “And whose
blood are you wearing all over your shirt?”
    “Well it ain't
nothin' nefarious on my part, but that’s a story you’re gonna wanna
hear. Pour me a goddamn cup of coffee and I’ll tell it,” the old
man grumbled, taking off his hat and gently setting it down to
cover the pistol.
    The cook
stared long and hard at the old man before relaxing his meaty
shoulders. He muttered under his breath as his hand came up from
beneath the counter, holding a yellowish coffee cup. He filled it
from a stained coffee pot that looked a decade or two past its
prime, and slammed the mug down on the scarred counter, leaving a
third of the brown liquid in a pool around the cup. The old cowboy
nodded his thanks as the bell on the door sounded again and another
random soul disappeared into the Las Vegas night. The old man
seemed to cringe at the sound of it and, after a cursive glance
over his shoulder, he spun around on his stool to take measure of
the place. It was the same as every other greasy spoon he’d seen
over the years - peeling wallpaper, Formica tables with
vinyl-padded aluminum chairs, and ratty booths with shaky lights
swinging above them. Most of the customers had left in a hurry when
he shambled into the place, and now there were only two tables left
occupied. A balding fat man sat in a booth, poking away on the tiny
keyboard of his cellular phone with meaty, sausage fingers adorned
with gaudy rings. He wore a shiny purple shirt, tight silk barely
containing his bulbous gut. Three empty beer bottles , a shambling
pile of race