“That grinny-Gus done nothing but sell us out since the day he got elected,” said a fat man with a straw hat pushed back on his forehead.

“He weren’t elected,” said his buddy. “Never met nobody yet who voted for him.”

“Brazilians own his ass,” said the fat man. “How you think they got logging rights on the Carolina state forest?”

Somebody switched the station and the crowd cheered.

The waitress set a strawberry malt in front of Rakkim, the clear glass glistening with condensation. “Got five kinds of barbecue and breakfast’s served twenty-four/seven,” she said, pointing to the LED menu embedded in the counter. The cigarette tucked in the corner of her mouth bobbed with every word. Melissa McQ was stitched onto the left pocket of her uniform in fraying red thread. She noticed Leo’s Ident collar. Noticed the handprint on his cheek too, but didn’t say anything.

“Bacon and eggs for me, side a grits too,” said Rakkim. “Give him the same, without the bacon. Jew boy here spits out swine. Real disgusting-like.”

“Jew boy?” Melissa peered at Leo. The cigarette rose to the one o’clock position. “I’ve met a few Jewish people in my time. You know a man named Hermann Weinstein? Long drink a water. Big head of black hair. Very clean hands.”

Leo shook his head.

Melissa tapped out their orders on the counter keypad. “A Jewish Ident. What won’t they think of next?”

Rakkim sucked up his strawberry malt. Loved it. He didn’t remember ever ordering one before. Wondered what had taken him so long.

Melissa leaned over the counter. She had a full, soft face, her frosted hair in tiny ringlets like some kewpie doll’s. “I was an Ident myself way back when.” She absently touched her neck where the Ident collar had once lain. “Spent seven years just outside of Jamesboro. Wasn’t so bad. Man holding my contract was a good Christian. Seven children and the poor man’s wife died birthing the eighth. I learned my way around the kitchen, I’ll tell you that much. Just the kitchen; like I said, he was a good Christian. No funny business.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I still get Christmas cards from Darleen. She was the youngest. Ugly child, but nice-shaped feet. You don’t appreciate nice feet until you take off your shoes after standing twelve hours a day.”

Rakkim nodded, waiting for the cops to show. Matter of time.

“Never had children myself,” said Melissa. “Those were good years. Like the good Lord said, seven lean years followed by seven fat years. Yes, sir, lots a wonderful folks been Idents, so you got nothing to be ashamed of.” She patted Leo on the arm. “What kind of trade are you going to learn, honey?”

A line of spit ran down the side of Leo’s smile.

“Taking him up to the lead smelter at Fayetteville.” Rakkim dragged on the straw, sucking up the thick, sweet malt. Amazing stuff. “Got a five-year contract.”

The hunters started laughing.

“Mister, you should be ashamed of yourself,” said Melissa, “that place is hell on earth.” She tried to get Leo’s attention. “Honey, you don’t want to go to Fayetteville. You won’t survive a year. Only folks working there are convicts chose the smelter over the electric chair.”

“Relax, lady, he doesn’t feel pain like a normal person,” said Rakkim.

“They got no safety equipment there, mister, none at all.” Melissa shook her head harder, curls flying. “It’s a hundred and thirty degrees where he’s going to be feeding the furnace, and the fumes peel the rust right off the pipes. This poor soul shows up, all they’re going to do is hand him a kerchief to wrap around his face and lock the door behind him.”

“Kid’s bought and paid for, so save your breath.” Rakkim pointed to the kitchen. “How about you fetch my eggs and let me run my business.”

“Good on ya, she’s a lippy one,” the tall hunter said to Rakkim as the waitress started down the counter. “You want my opinion, her owner didn’t check out the goods ’cause she was ugly as sin, not ’cause he was some good Christian.”

In the mirror behind the counter, Rakkim watched two cops come out of the bar. “Any luck?” Rakkim asked the hunter.

“Got a few ducks,” said the tall hunter. “Weird birds, though. Beaks all papery and splintered, half starved.”

“There’s meat on ’em,” said the other one, “that’s all that matters.”

“They ain’t right,” said the taller one. He leaned closer to Rakkim. “They roost in the wetlands around Houston. Lord only knows what’s in the water there.”

“I’m tired of hearing you complain about toxic this and toxic that,” said the other one, a sunburned yokel with tiny white-tipped pustules covering his cheeks. “You don’t want to eat ’em, fine, that’s more for me.”

Rakkim could see the cops chatting with the people in the booths, making everyone nervous as they slowly made their way closer. “I heard there was typhoid in Houston.”

The second hunter picked his teeth with a fingernail. “You heard fucking wrong, pal.”

“There is typhoid in Houston,” said the taller one. “And worse shit too.”

The smaller scratched the bumps on his face. “Like I said, more for me to eat.”

Melissa placed a piece of peach pie in front of Leo. “On the house, honey.” She glanced at Rakkim. “Cook burned your eggs. Going to be a while more.”

The two cops stood behind Rakkim and the hunters, hands on their stun sticks. Couple of natty lawmen, creases sharp, clean-shaven. A third cop stepped through the front door with a machine pistol against his hip, safety off.

“Evening, gentlemen,” said the oldest cop, a bald cracker with plenty of gym time.

The hunters grunted, looked down at their plates.

Rakkim swiveled around on his stool. “Buy you officers a cup of coffee?”

The question seemed to anger the other cop, short fellow with a clipped mustache.

“That your caddy pulled into the lot ten minutes ago?” said the bald cop.

A trick question. They knew what he was driving at. “Yes, sir, it is. It’s for sale if you’re interested, but I have to warn you, it burns oil.”

Leo shoveled in peach pie, chewing with his mouth open.

“This your Ident?” asked the bald cop.

Another trick question. Rakkim took comfort in the blade against his forearm. He could take out the two cops behind him with one slashing movement, but getting to the third one before he ripped the clip…that depended on how the cop reacted to the sight of blood. “Yes, sir, he is, but I apologize, he’s not for sale.”

The bald cop held his hand out and Rakkim gave him the Ident chip with all the fake paperwork. The bald cop slipped the chip into his reader, ran a check. Finally nodded, handed the chip back. “Looks like everything’s in order.”

The waitress set Rakkim’s grits and eggs in front of him. Leo’s plate had twice the food on it as Rakkim’s. “You sure I can’t get you anything, William Lee?”

The bald cop shook his head. He laid a hand on Rakkim’s shoulder. “You been to Mount Carmel earlier today?”

“Yup,” said Rakkim. “Quite a show too. ’Bout to broke my heart.” He looked from one cop to the other. “There some kind of problem?”

The bald cop looked him over. “We got word that a couple Rangers in that area didn’t check in. Not like them, evidently. Been some trouble with the Mexes lately, so headquarters put out a three-hundred-sixty-degree alert.” He had a soft little smile and Rakkim imagined him at Christmas, drinking eggnog as he watched his grandkids open their presents, making sure they were suitably grateful and correcting them if they weren’t. “Seems like half the folks been in here tonight are on their way home from Mount Carmel. Thought you might have seen something.”

“Well, sir, I took the interstate even though I was warned against it,” said Rakkim. “Supposed to be press-gangs swooping down on folks, but I didn’t worry.” He rapped his right leg. “With this bum leg of mine, I’m not much good-”