Grasp Heart

Chapter 19: Dad Energy

Tuesday night, six o'clock sharp, I arrived at Sally's Diner. It was a little restaurant out on the neck of the Homer Spit. It had a carved wooden bench beneath the awning with eagles for armrests and an American flag painted on the backrest. It earned an impressed glance as I ambled by with deliberate slowness.

The front face of the diner was all windows filtering greasy-gold light as I walked up from the adjacent parking lot. Trying not to be too conspicuous, I peered in. I wanted to pick out my quarry among the diners, but there were too many rugged-looking loggers and hikers to try and identify a chief of police from among them.

Pocketing the directions Coach Carter had given me, I pushed inside. The thick scent of carbohydrate-heavy foods washed over me; starchy, buttery, and mildly mouthwatering. Anxiously, I glanced about; looking from table to table. Mustaches and beards appeared to be the popular style in this locale; Coach's brief description of Chief Murphy wasn't nearly descriptive enough. On top of that, there were three tables at which a mustached man had chosen to sit by himself.

"You can take any open table," a waitress behind the counter called as she loaded her hands with laden plates.

"Oh, uh, I'm actually looking for Chief Murphy," I explained, hooking my thumbs into my skirt-pockets.

She did a double-take, glancing back at me, "Oh, he's over there."

Her chin jerked toward a front corner of a restaurant where one of the three lonesome mustached men sat.

"Thanks," I said, relaxing a bit and making my way over.

Chief Murphy was a man just-over the cusp of middle-age with salt-and-pepper hair, a mild crinkle in the corner of his eyes, and a coarseness to his mustache. He gazed out the window, hand cupping a mug of steaming, rich-smelling coffee. As I approached, he broke his thousand-mile stare to appraise me.

"Sara?" he asked, straightening to stand and greet me.

"Yes," I said, taking his hand firmly in mine.

His strength was subtle, covered up by the loose-fitting button-down he wore, but there was an outdoorsman weather to his stern fingers. A hardiness that he likely needed as a small-town cop.

"It's nice to meet you, Chief Murphy."

I settled myself uneasily across from him. He'd taken my preferred seat: the one facing the entrance.

"Scott," he corrected, gripping his coffee mug with both hands now as he studied me, "It's always a good sign when I can meet youth in pleasant circumstances like these."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that some teenagers I get to meet as I detain them," he sighed, a bitter chuckle on his breath.

"In Homer?"

"Oh, yeah. We may not have big-city, 'Los Angeles' type of trouble here, but we still get trouble. Usually drugs, partying - the like."

"None of the company I keep, right?"

"The company you keep... Alissa Brown? Trevor Locke?"

"Catalina Romero, Will Cheng, Anthony Madsen, and Tim Garrison too."

"Trevor and Anthony..." he trailed off, squinting pensively, "They're trouble. Alissa I've never caught, but her mother lets slip occasionally that her daughter has attended various parties."

He huffed with disappointment, "That gossip probably thinks this is one big game that she's helping her daughter play."

"A little judgmental of you to call her a gossip," I noted with a small smile, "Given that you knew who some of my friends were before I told you."