Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

Truck Stop by Milton Berle

Milton Berle has been a vaudeville star, a movie actor, and “television’s first mass attraction.” (People) But some of his fans may be surprised to learn that he is also a writer with credits in several national magazines. This is his first piece for EQMM.

He didn’t look much like a trucker. Short truckers, even those only five-three or — four like him, had an attitude you could see. They wore it like a Pendleton, outside and brazen. His white cotton shirt wasn’t a trucker’s shirt.

Through the neon Bud sign in the window beyond the booths Jenny could see his rig. It was a big one with enough tire to gag a fast lane. Jenny guessed that he was an independent, bringing a load out on the northern route but heading back through California and Arizona. This had to be his virgin trip on the big I. Probably lucked into a load of rattan furniture or something.

Jenny’d never seen him before so she knew he was cherry. No trucker would have dared to come this way without stopping at the Countyline Cafe. A trucker could have lost his license for less of an infraction. This one had to be cherry.

Jenny thought about asking him where he was from and where he was heading, but he didn’t start any kind of conversation on which Jenny could hang her curiosity. A grunt of hello and that was all. Instead of ordering, he’d pointed to what he wanted on the menu.

In thirty-two years as a waitress, Jenny’d never asked questions unless the other party indicated a willingness to take the witness stand. This one hadn’t given sign one. A shame too, as it was a slow day. He was the only customer she’d seen for two hours. Two, three in the afternoon was often slow. Most truckers were barreling to beat the traffic that started choking roads at four.

When Jenny served the short fellow Countyline’s world-famous salmon croquette special, she stood facing him from behind the counter. Habit then pulled a few statements out of her. The salmon was just about the best thing on the menu. Most of the time the catch of the day was something like fish sticks. Pablo, the new man in the kitchen, cooked a lot of things badly, but he was good with salmon. And meatloaf. By the way, did the gent want some hot sauce? She knew he’d shake his head no. Mayonnaise, she figured with a silent chuckle, would blister his tongue.

As he cut into the second croquette, the mound still firm when severed, the short trucker spoke up. “This is real nice. My wife makes them good, too.”

Jenny shifted about a third of her hundred-and-eighty pounds and was about to start asking questions when three bikers came through the door. Dressed in leather, confidence, brute, and about ten gallons of unwashed, they sat down in the booth nearest the door. Jenny’d seen them before. They weren’t regulars, once a month at most. They were good for two beers and a little noise. They usually kept their distance from the truckers.

One of the bikers, Wrench, started to pick up a menu with his teeth. Face, the second, who’d probably been a biker eight minutes after birth and slapping the doctor, walked over to the jukebox. As he reached into his pocket for some coins, Jenny cut him short.

“The box isn’t working,” Jenny said.

“That’s dumb,” said Face. “Feel like music.” Turning, he saw the short trucker looking at him. “What are you looking at, man?”

Jenny said, “Let him be.”

Face pressed on. “What in hell are you looking at?” he said to the short trucker.

“Nothing.”

“You trying to say I’m nothing?”

The third biker, the real fat one named Herron, spoke up. “He said you were nothing. Face, you’ve been insulted.”

“Cut it out,” Jenny said.

“I’m not looking for trouble,” the short trucker said. He turned back to his food.

“I think he is,” Wrench said, giving up on the menu.

“Why are you guys acting up?” Jenny asked. “The man came in to eat.”

Face said, “We came in for a couple of brews and some music. He’s the one making trouble.”

“Can’t live without music,” said Wrench.

“Maybe he can sing for us,” said Herron.

“How about a brew on the house?” Jenny asked. “And the radio?”

“Rather hear this cat sing,” said Wrench.

“You do sing, don’t you?” Face asked.

The short trucker dropped a five-dollar bill on the counter and pushed himself from the seat.

“I’m sorry,” Jenny said.

“It’s okay.” The short trucker turned to go. Face placed himself between him and the door. “We’d like to hear you sing.”

“You guys are nuts,” Jenny said.

“Sing!” Face barked.

“A Willy Nelson tune. You know ‘Whiskey River’?” Wrench added.

The short trucker tried to sidestep so he could get through the man mountain. Face moved with him and pushed at him. “Sing something,” he said, almost begging.

The short trucker sang. Sixteen bars into “On the Road Again,” he smiled, as if pleased to be of service. The song trailed off.

“Not bad,” said Herron. “How about dancing for us?”

“Stop it,” Jenny screamed.

Face motioned for her to calm down. “One little dance, ma’am. That’s all we want.”

The bikers started to clap out a tempo. The short trucker danced.

After watching him for a few seconds, the bikers stopped clapping. The short trucker stopped dancing.

“Dude, you are one bad dancer,” said Face. He stepped aside. The short trucker exited. Sitting, he motioned for three beers.

“That was mean, guys,” Jenny said. “If you want to play mean, find some other restaurant.”

“We were only funnin’,” said Herron.

Jenny brought the beers. A moment later, Gardner, one of the regular drivers, walked in and started for the counter. In the booth, the bikers were amusing themselves. Gardner, big enough to make the comment, said, “You three are having fun, aren’t you?”

“You missed some,” said Face. “We had a dude just left gave us a concert. Didn’t sing bad. Couldn’t dance though. He was the worst dancer I ever saw.”

“He was a bad driver too,” said Gardner. “When he took off, he backed clear over your three bikes. Flat, you never saw flat.”