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"Now. And how can you text and open a Tropicana?"
He mumbled but his eyes grew wide when he saw the potatoes. "Awesome."
As they sat down, Maggie said, "Are we going to say grace?"
This was new. The Dance household was not particularly religious.
"We can if you'd like to. What do you want to say thanks for?"
"Thanks?" Maggie looked puzzled.
"Grace is where you say thanks to God for something."
"Oh," the girl said. "I thought it was where you asked for something."
"Not grace," Boling explained. "You can pray for things but grace is where you thank somebody else."
"What did you want to ask for?" Dance looked at the girl's face, which revealed no emotion.
"Nothing. I was just wondering. Can I have the butter, please?"
Chapter 26
Antioch March walked into a restaurant on Fisherman's Wharf and got a table near the window.
Tourism on steroids. Nothing like the days of Steinbeck's Cannery Row, he guessed.
He ordered a pineapple juice and looked at his prepaid once again. Nothing on the information he was expecting.
March ordered a calamari steak with steamed vegetables.
"Sorry, they're only sauteed. I don't think the chef--"
"That's okay. I'll take them that way."
Another sip of juice. He opened his gym bag and began looking over maps and notes--what was planned for tomorrow. The theater had been denied him, set him back a day, but this would be just as good. Even better, he now reflected.
He glanced around the restaurant. But he wasn't worried about being recognized. His appearance was very different from what had been reported. What a stroke of luck that the police had released his description to the public and not kept it to themselves. If the theater employee hadn't given that away, he might be in jail now.
Or dead.
He was studying a family nearby. Parents and two teenagers, all looking like they should be enjoying the pier more. In fact, the area was a little paltry. Shopping mostly. No rides, except fifty cents bought little kids a turn on a spaceship, up and down, in front of a shell shop.
Family...
Antioch March's father had been a salesman--yes, a real, honest-to-God traveling salesman. Industrial parts, American made (though maybe some components, tiny ones, had been teamed together in China. Dad, politically conservative, had been less than forthcoming about that).
The food came and he ate. He was hungry. It had been a long time since McBreakfast.
March's father was never home, his mother either, though she hadn't traveled much. She worked a lot, though young Andy could do the math. Shift over at five but not home till seven thirty or eight, for a shower to rid herself of someone else's aftershave--and whatever--then downstairs to ask about his day as she made him supper.
Not every day. But often enough. Andy didn't care. Mom could do what she wanted. He had what he needed. He had his video games.
"How's your calamari, sir?" the young waitress asked, as if she really, really cared.
"Good."
She tipped him with a smile.
