Breaking Point

said.
    “What was his name again?”
    “Love. That’s all I know about him.”
    The man who might be Love pushed himself off the brick wall and walked slowly to their car. Singewald powered down his window.
    “You EPA?” the man asked.
    “Agents Singewald and Baker.”
    “I’m Kim Love,” the man said. “I guess we’re going to the same place today.”
    Singewald chinned toward the backseat. “Do you have anything you need to put in the trunk before we leave?”
    Love rocked back on his heels and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. He shook his head.
    “I’ll follow you up,” Love said. “I’ve got my own car.”
    “Sure you don’t want to come with us?” Singewald asked Love.
    “I’m sure.”
    “Suit yourself. Do you know where we’re going?”
    “Yes, unfortunately.”
    Singewald didn’t react. Instead, he reached inside his jacket pocket and handed Love an official EPA business card.
    “My cell phone number is on there. Give me a call when we get going so I have yours, so we can keep in touch if we get separated.”
    Love sighed and shook his head. “What, you think you’re entering No Man’s Land?”
    “Yes,” Baker whispered, sotto voce.
    “Maybe we can stop in Casper for lunch,” Love said. “I know a place there.”
    “We’ll follow you,” Singewald said with a shrug.
    When Love walked away to climb into his own sedan with U.S. Government plates, Baker said to Singewald, “What’s his problem?”
    Singewald shrugged. “Don’t know and don’t care,” he said. “He’s just another working stiff. Like us.”
    —
    B AKER WAS PRACTICALLY SPUTTERING two and a half hours later when the brake lights of Love’s sedan flashed and the Corps of Engineers car took the Second Street exit in Casper and turned in at a truck stop.
    “He’s yanking our chain,” Baker said, leaning forward in his seat to look around. A long line of side-by-side tractor-trailers idled in a cacophony on the south side of the huge parking lot. A trucker emerged from the restaurant and convenience-store doors holding a half-gallon soft-drink container to take back to his truck cab.
    “Maybe this Love knows something,” Singewald said. “Maybe this place is, you know, a jewel in the rough.”
    “It’s a
truck stop
.”
    “We might as well be friendly, since we’re stuck with him,” Singewald said, and turned off the motor.
    Baker sighed. “Maybe I’ll just stay in here. I can feel my arteries clogging up just looking at this place and the people coming out of it.”
    “You don’t have to come in,” Singewald said, handing Baker the keys. “If you want to listen to the radio or something.”
    Baker waved him off. “Believe me, there’s probably nothing worth listening to here. I’m not a big fan of Buck Owens.”
    Singewald pocketed the keys.
    “Oh, all right,” Baker said with a groan, opening his door to get out.
    —
    T HEY SAT around a Formica table in a high-backed booth; Kim Love on one side and Singewald and Baker on the other. All of the other tables and booths were occupied by truck drivers and rough-looking locals who appeared as if they’d driven into town from building sites or oil rigs. Even with their ties removed, Singewald thought the three of them stood out. Singewald thought Love seemed distant, and maybe a little hostile to them. He chalked it up to interagency rivalry and didn’t let it bother him. There was no reason to make friends, he thought. He’d never met Love before, and after their joint operation later that afternoon, he doubted he’d ever see him again.
    Beside him, Lenox Baker studied the plastic menu and sighed.
    “Do you recommend anything in particular?” Baker asked Love.
    “The chicken-fried steak sandwich,” Love said without even looking at his menu. “Best in Central Wyoming. I’m from Texas, and I’m particular about chicken-fried steak. They do it right here: no pre-breaded bullshit.”
    Baker cringed.
    Singewald ordered the sandwich as well, and Baker asked the waitress if the lettuce of the chef salad had any preservatives sprayed on it. Without a smile and with a quick glance toward her other busy tables, she said, “I wouldn’t know that, hon.”
    “Can you ask the chef?”
    “We don’t have a chef. I’ll ask the
cook
,” she said, and spun on her heels toward the kitchen.
    “Those chemicals give me diarrhea,” Baker explained to Singewald.
    “Can’t have that,” he replied.
    —
    A FTER THEY PUSHED their