The Pale Man Rises

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

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At 8:38 p.m. the Southeast American Bus bound for Wilmington, North Carolina pulled into the broad line parking lot of the Crawford Town Café. The place was well lit up and there were a great many cars in the parking lot. Despite the numerous vehicles there was a corridor there that allowed a bus to easily roll up to, the front of the structure as they geared down, their air brakes hissing loudly as they did.

The café had a contract with the bus company to sell tickets, dispatch and hold packages that traveled via the bus, and provide a small waiting area inside the café for the few people in the community who may have a need to catch the bus. Inside the café was a hive of noise and activity. There were at least fifty tables, which stood in ranks in the wide dining area to the rear of the place. And astonishingly all the tables were filled with patrons. This was quite amazing too when you realize that there were maybe only 2oo people who lived in this whole, unincorporated community.

The café had a reputation for dispensing a good home-style meal at a reasonable price and a local would argue that having a fourth of the local population there on any particular night was not in the least unusual. And since a table could hold at least four people you could conceivably have the entire population of Crawford Town there at the same time minus the employees who were residents.

Waitresses crisscrossed the avenues of the tables carrying simmering hot plates stacked with mounds of the country fare they served and large containers of iced tea, and hot steaming coffee from the kitchen area. At the front of the café that was separated from the main dining area by a gated waist high wall was a grill. This was where those who were in a hurry and did not have the luxury to sit down to a substantial meal would have something that was quickly made.

In contrast to the crowded main dining area the grill only had four people up there. The cook rushed around behind the counter tidying up getting ready to close the grill on schedule at nine. The waitress who served the customers here was just waiting for her shift to end. She was propped on the counter with her chin in her hands and engaged the two other men there in conversation. The two men who sat with her side by side at the middle of the counter had met earlier in the evening when the older man's automobile had broken down on Highway 18 two hours before.

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One of the men, a handsome young man in a uniform, was a member of the North Carolina Highway Patrol. The other man was a minister from the town of Belfast who was returning from a weekend trip as a visiting minister in the town of Lexum that was situated just above the city of Kannapolis. Just ten miles outside of Crawford Town the five-year old Caddy he was driving broke down.

The minister was the Right Reverend Elias Locklear and he was resplendent in his red suspenders as he entertained the patrolman and the waitress who clucked gum as she pushed back her bleach blonde hair. She had a crush on the patrolman and he on her, but neither ever let on to the other how interested in each other they were. Locklear was a tall gregarious man who had long ago come to believe that the best way to elicit the Christian nature in all men was through humor. He used tall tales told in a comedic fashion much like Jesus himself used the parables to disseminate Christian doctrine.

He held a handkerchief in his right hand and gestured excitedly as he twisted about on the stool, his spittle raining down on the counter as if he was delivering a sermon and was caught up in it like he was a latter day Billy Sunday.

He was just finishing up a particularly funny story about a bowler who went to hell and had to contend with square balls when the patrolman Martin Clark spied the cast of the bus' headlights as it pushed itself around the black top of the café. He held up his hand as if to interrupt the preacher's story. "There's your bus Reverend Locklear." he said patting the jovial gentleman on the back of his still crisp white shirt. The minister turned his large head, which was topped by a shock of deep black hair streaked by lines of gray. "So it is my friend, so it is." he said loudly.