Sour Grapes

1

    S tanding at the counter of Burger Bonanza, the tantalizing aroma of stale cooking oil tickling her nostrils, the sight of sandwiches in greasy wrappers setting her taste buds atwitter, Savannah Reid considered herself lucky to be within reach of food... any food. It had been a long night.
    “Sure you can afford this cornucopia of culinary delights, big boy?” she asked her buddy, Dirk Coulter, who stood beside her, studying the backlit menu on the wall—specifically, the price column—with the discriminating eye of a first-rate cheapskate.
    “I can afford it if you don’t get carried away,” he grumbled. Spotting a poster that dangled on a string from the ceiling, he brightened. “Hey, they’ve got a special... a Junior Deluxe with fries and a drink for ninety-nine cents! Let’s get a couple of those!”
    “Let’s don’t. I’m starved, and that measly kiddy meal wouldn’t fill a chipmunk’s cheeks,” she said, her Southern drawl becoming more pronounced, as it always did when she was irritated and hungry. And Savannah was frequently one or the other.
    She stepped up to the counter and motioned to the skinny girl in the baggy, red-and-blue polyester pantsuit. As the Burger Bonanza hostess sauntered to the cash register, Savannah noted the plastic name tag on the breast pocket of her shirt. “Good evening... ah... Jeanette. I would like to order a—”
    “I ain’t Jeanette,” the girl said as she slid an enormous wad of gum from one side of her mouth to the other and chomped on it. “Whaddaya want? We’re closin’ in a couple o’ minutes.”
    Savannah forced a weak smile and resisted the urge to relocate the gum to some other orifice... like the left nostril or right ear. Both of which bore multiple piercings. Beside her, Dirk snickered, and she elbowed him in the ribs. “Well, Miss Scrawny-Assed, Ill-Mannered Person Wearing Jeanette’s Uniform, I want a double chili-cheeseburger with a superlarge fries and about a quart of Coke and—
    “Hey, stop right there!” Dirk held up one hand in his best traffic-directing mode. “I’m not made of money, you know. Cops don’t exactly knock down the bucks.”
    “I know. I was one. But private detectives don’t make a killin’ either. And I just spent half the night, keeping you company on a duller-than-dirt stakeout far free.”
    “ I thought the joy of hangin’ out with me would be payment enough.”
    Savannah looked him up and down, taking in the tousled, thinning hair, the decrepit bomber jacket, the ratty T-shirt with a faded Harley-Davidson logo, the nearly kneeless jeans, and the smirk on a face that showed the wear and tear of more than twenty years as a street cop.
    In a weak moment, she might have admitted that she joined him on midnight stakeouts for the pleasure of his company. They had been partners on the San Carmelita police force for seven years, before she and the department had experienced a parting of the ways. And she missed Dirk. If nothing else, she missed the daily opportunities to yank his chain; he was just so “yankable.”
    She gave him one of her deep-dimpled smiles, then sniffed. “Eh... get real, Fart Face. You promised me food. Now, fork over for a double chili cheese and the works before I pitch a fit.”
    Dirk groaned—a beaten man. He turned to the girl behind the register. “Get her what she ordered, before she decides she wants onion rings and a strawberry sundae, too.”
    A few minutes later, they were sitting on miserably hard booth seats, their feast spread across the table between them. Dirk was pouting, and the expression looked ridiculous on a forty-plus guy wearing a Harley shirt.
    “Geez, you didn’t have to go ahead and order the rings and—”
    “Oh, hush and stuff your jaws.” She shoved the oil-soaked bag of onion rings over to him and grabbed her own burger from the tray. Chili ran from both sides of the sandwich and dripped onto the wrapper as she bit into it. The spicy sauce filled her senses, and she closed her eyes as she chewed, savoring the moment. Ah... food, nourishment, highly saturated fat calories. Once again, all was right with the world.
    For just a second, maybe two, her pleasure was slightly dimmed by the thought that tomorrow morning, this burger would be riding around on her butt or elsewhere on her body, along with about thirty extra pounds of Winchell’s Donuts, Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, Yukon Gold potato chips—drowned in French onion dip—and