suppress magic, what are the odds that the phones are still working?” the Warlock asked.
We continued in silence. The sign soon became legible: it bore a cartoon cowboy in a red-checkered shirt tipping a red ten-gallon hat alongside the words “Howdy Y’all! Welcome to Rudy Ray’s Roadstop.” There were a couple of gasoline and diesel pumps out front under a corrugated steel awning tall enough to shelter a semi and what looked to be a kerosene pump and air pump off to the side. Something low and flat out back was reflecting a lot of sunlight; I wondered if it was some kind of greenhouse. The Roadstop was a single-story brick building with a flat gravel roof. It was a fairly standard convenience store construction with a few folksy flourishes like the hand-painted cartoon cowboy signs advertising ice, beer, wine, and homemade pecan pies in the windows. The parking lot was empty of cars except for a burnt-orange Toyota Prius with a Texas Longhorns bumper sticker. The lonely car was covered in a thick layer of caliche dust and looked as if it hadn’t been driven all summer.
There was a “Y’all Come on In, We’re Open!” sign on the glass front door. Once we got fairly close, I was able to see past the glare reflecting off the windows into the store. “Hey, check it out, the lights are on. Somebody’s really here.”
“It looks as though I’m rather too large to fit through the door,” Pal told me. “I shall wait for you in the shade by the fuel pumps.”
I went to the door first, cautiously pushed it open a crack, and stuck my head inside. The air was cool, a little stale, but clearly the place had working air-conditioning. I heard something I first thought was ice rattling around in a blender. The front part of the Roadstop was a little café area set up with a half-dozen small round white tables and chairs to the right and a glass-fronted food service counter along the wall to the left. The food service area had a refrigerated section for ice cream (all the tubs were empty and clean) closest to the door, I supposed to attract the attention of hot, tired travelers. Past that was a section that advertised various pies and pastries—nothing was left but a few dry-looking brownies—and to the right of it, what looked to have been a hot food area that once served chili dogs and tamales and such. Beyond the café tables was a small grocery store area, mainly rows of wine coolers and beer. Most of the shelves of dry goods were empty, as were the refrigerated drink coolers along the back wall. To the far left was a glass door that led into a dark room; a sign on the door read “The Liquor Locker—Over 21 Only.”
Directly across from the door past the café tables was a separate counter of Texas-themed T-shirts, caps, postcards, and other souvenirs. Between the postcard display and an old-fashioned manual cash register I could see a booted pair of feet propped up on the glass countertop.
“Hello, anyone here?” I called.
The ice-chopping noise stopped abruptly, and as a chair squeaked and the boots slipped off the counter I realized the sound had been snoring. A thin man with a thick gray handlebar mustache popped up behind the cash register, running his fingers through his sparse white hair nervously.
“Sorry, folks, must have nodded off there awhile. Come on in! My name’s Rudy, and mi hacienda es su hacienda!”
I shrugged at Cooper and the Warlock. They shrugged back. We cautiously stepped inside.
“I ain’t had a supply run in a while, so I’m short on snacks, I’m real sorry ’bout that.” The man ran his hands over the front of his red Western-style shirt, apparently trying to smooth out some of the wrinkles. “But I got Cokes and beer in the back if y’all are thirsty. Got the good Mexican and Passover Cokes, too. No corn syrup in my store if I can help it! Don’t know if that junk really causes diabetus or not—the ’betus took my wife, Yolanda, God rest her—but real sugar tastes better if y’all ask me.”
I was actually pretty thirsty, but didn’t know if we could trust this guy or not. “Thanks, I think we’re good for right now … but can you tell us where we are?”
“You’re in Cuchillo, Texas.” The man’s tone was an odd mix of pride and dread. “Really, you’re about a hunnert