Northern Lights

on?"
    "Another week or two anyway, and then Charlene's going to let her set her own schedule until she feels ready for full-time."
    "You gotta say, that's obliging."
    "Oh, she's plenty obliging with Rose." She shot a short and bitter look over her shoulder in Charlene's direction. "She loves her. It's me she can't tolerate. What'll it be, handsome?"
    "If I say the two of you are probably after the same things, in different ways, are you going to bash me over the head with that coffeepot?"
    "I might."
    "Then I'll have the oatmeal."
    "You eat oatmeal?" She wrinkled her sexily crooked nose. "Without somebody holding a knife to your throat?"
    "It sticks with you."
    "Yeah, for weeks."
    With a shrug, she walked off to take more orders, top off mugs of coffee.
    He liked watching her move. Quick, but not rushed, sexy, but not obvious. She wore the ubiquitous flannel shirt, open over a white thermal. A silver pendant bounced lightly from its chain between her breasts.
    She'd slapped some makeup on—he knew because he'd watched her, and slapped was the operative word. Fast, efficient, absent, quick brushes of color on the cheeks, shadowy stuff on the eyes, then careless flicks of mascara on those long, dark lashes.
    And when a man noticed how a woman handled mascara, Nate mused, he was sunk.
    Charlene came out with an order; Meg went back with her pad. They didn't acknowledge each other, except for the sudden dip in temperature.
    He picked up his coffee, pulled out his notebook to use it as a shield when Charlene headed in his direction. Even a man who was sunk had enough self-preservation to stay out of the middle of two sniping women.
    "Want me to top that off for you? She get your order? I don't know why she can't be more pleasant to the customers."
    "No, thanks. Yes, she did. And she was pleasant."
    "To you, maybe, because you're balling her."
    "Charlene." He caught the unmuffled snickers from the booth where Hans and Dexter habitually sat. "God."
    "Well, it's no secret, is it?"
    "Not anymore," he muttered.
    "Spent the night in your room, didn't she?"
    He set his coffee down. "If that's a problem for you, I can take my things to her place."
    "Why should it be a problem for me?" Despite his no, thanks, she topped off his coffee in an automatic gesture. "Why should anything be a problem for me?"
    To his utter terror, her eyes filled with tears. Before he could think how to handle it, or her, she rushed out of the room, coffee sloshing in her pot.
    "Women," Bing said from the booth behind him. "Nothing but trouble."
    Nate shifted around. Bing was plowing through a plate of eggs, sausage and home fries. There was a sneaky grin on his face, but if Nate didn't mistake it, a little gleam of sympathy in his eyes.
    "You ever been married, Bing?"
    "Was once. Didn't stick."
    "Can't imagine why."
    "Thought about doing it again. Maybe I'll get myself one of those Russian mail-order women, like Johnny Trivani's doing."
    "He's going through with that?"
    "Sure. Got it down to two, last I heard. Thought I'd see how it works out for him, then look into it."
    "Uh-huh." Since they were having what passed as a conversation, Nate decided to probe. "Do you do any climbing, Bing?"
    "Used to some. Don't like it much. I got free time, I'd rather go hunting. You looking to recreate?"
    "Might be. Days are getting longer."
    "You got city all over you, and a skinny build. Stick with town, chief, that's my advice. Take up knitting or some shit."
    "I've always wanted to macramé." At Bing's blank look, Nate only smiled. "How come you don't have a plane, Bing? Guy like you, likes his independence, knows his machines. Seems like a natural."
    "Too much work. I'm gonna work, it's gonna be on the ground. Besides, you have to be half crazy to pilot."
    "So I hear. Somebody mentioned some pilot to me, funny name. SixToes something."
    "That'd be Two-Toes. Lost three of them on one foot to frostbite or some shit. Now that was one crazy bastard. Dead now."
    "That so? Crashed?"
    "Nah. Got himself beat up in a fight. Or no . . ." Bing's brow wrinkled. "Stabbed. City crime. Teach you to live with that many other people."
    "There you go. Did you ever go up with him?"
    "Once. Crazy bastard. Flew a bunch of us out to the bush for caribou. Didn't know he was higher than the frigging moon until he damn near killed us. Blackened his eye for it," Bing said with relish. "Crazy bastard."
    Nate started to respond, but Meg came out of the kitchen—and the front door