Page 106 of Jonesing for a Spy

Charlie begins the trek as well, and I fall in line. I have no idea who Mona is or where she lives, but if I can get some insight into Jamie, I’m in.

An hour later, I’m wiser, but no less confused. Mona’s is Mona’s Waffle Hut which is sort of how I picture a Waffle House… only more colorful, louder, and with a woman who is horrifying in her self-assurance. Mona has red hair that verges on pink, rolled damn near in a beehive, and hips that stick straight out from her body. She’s brash, funny, and rolls her eyes, swearing when we walk into her open-concept greasy spoon.

“Here comes trouble.” She pauses to study me before going on. “And they brought a newbie. You”—she points a huge spatula at me—“are you on the side of good or evil?”

“Good?” My answer comes out in the form of a question because I genuinely don’t know what the right answer is with a woman like Mona.

“Bullshit,” she spits back. “Grab a seat and try not to destroy anything.”

Two graying men in the corner playing checkers cackle out loud. “Not if you’re with the Jones boys, that’s for sure,” one says. The other gives him a high five and takes a pull of coffee through a fat-lipped mug that’s always present in these kinds of places.

We find a booth. Jamie takes a seat first. I slide in from the other side along a green padded bench. Charlie blocks me in, one leg hanging out as if the booth makes him claustrophobic. For the second time today, I’m between them, corralled into a place that I have to stop finding myself.

Mona slaps menus on the table and pours three coffees without asking. “What’ll ya have?”

Charlie affably states, “You already know. I’m surprised you ask anymore.”

She pops the gum she’s chewing and bobs her head once, turning to Jamie. “And you?”

“Number one, rare, four eggs over easy and double home fries, extra onions.”

She tilts her head but keeps eye contact with him. “So your normal, too? ’Kay.” She slides her eyes to me and assesses me. “And for you?”

“What do you recommend?”

She grunts and sighs. “Where’re ya from?”

“Illinois. And whatever you feel like cooking up, I’m good with.”

She taps the table twice, turns on her squishy-heeled shoe, and hollers, “I got ya, boy,” over her shoulder as she moves to the cooktops.

“I’m being set up, aren’t I?” I ask the table.

“Oh, yeah,” Charlie says.

Jamie bobs his head and lifts his mug to his lips. “Yep.”

As far as set-ups go, it’s not the worst I’ve had. Chicken fried steak with peppered white gravy, home fries with peppers—bell and jalapeños—and onions, scrambled eggs, and a biscuit the size of a dinner plate.

“Why is the food so good down here?” I ask, shoveling a bite into my mouth.

“Lard,” Charlie answers, over-talking Jamie’s, “Butter.”

“Between this and Fat Bottom Grill, I don’t think I’ll regret moving here.” In that exact moment, the diner is dead silent. Even the mugs in patrons’ hands are aloft as though the record-screeching moment also provided a freeze-frame.

Jamie’s head swivels my way with slow, lethal precision. “What did you say?”

“I assumed Mirren told you. I’m moving here.” I study him and look, at my own peril, Charlie’s way. “And I’m getting it that you didn’t know. Okay. Well, Mirren and I are serious at making a go of things. That requires being in the same state, not just the same time zone. So, you’re looking at the newest Alabaman? Alabamaian? Whatever.”

Charlie smiles but quickly masks it when he sees the severity of Jamie’s expression. “Mirren is special.”

“She is.”

“No,” he bites. “Not like some random girl you can get on with. She’s special.”

“I know.”

“And if you were to ever hurt her⁠—”