Flight of Death - Richard Hoyt Page 0,12

old people and kept on the menu to keep the Awful Onion in touch with its colorful roots and traditions. I wasn’t without my pride; I didn’t want to peg myself as a prole.

Would I have the nerve to embarrass myself by ordering a cheeseburger? Did I have the hair?

The waitress was a short, plump teenager with breasts that squashed up against the counter in the manner of safety cushions proposed for new cars — in a crash, one smashed into an embracing pillow rather than glass and metal.

I broke the suspense. “I would like one of your odious but splendid chiliburgers, please, loaded with all the awful onions you can muster and a cup of coffee. Why, I’ve heard about these awful onions of Delbert’s from Washougal to Puyallup and beyond.” I sang a song for her.

“Delll-bert’s awww-ful onnn-ions

Taste grrreat when friiied with grunnn-ions.”

She looked momentarily puzzled.

“They’re little fish they catch at night in the surf in southern California.”

“That’s right. I have a cousin in San Diego.” She wrote down my order and gave me a nine of diamonds which she would call when my order was ready.

I turned, wondering if I shouldn’t have ordered some onion rings too, and there, sitting in a booth, a good-looking blond of about forty was watching me have my fun from over the shoulder of a tall man with a head as bald as Brynner’s dome.

The bald one was reading something, and his eyes were on the table. I grabbed a pile of newspapers intended for Delbert’s customers and headed for an empty booth just behind him.

As I walked past their table, I noted that el baldo was wearing a photographer’s vest, the pockets of which bulged impressively with high-tech gizmos and doodads.

I flopped down in the booth and opened the first newspaper, the Vancouver Columbian. There, on the front page, was a story on the spotted owl count in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest that was to begin Sunday night. It pointed out that the action would actually start at noon Saturday with a protest parade in Sixkiller by the Committee for Loggers’ Solidarity. Jenny MacIvar’s nemesis Bosley Ellin was to be grand marshal.

The story was printed beside a photograph of the blond woman sitting behind me. She was Dr. Lois Angleton, the woman in charge of the count and Jenny MacIvar’s boss. I wondered if I could hear Lois Angleton’s conversation with the bald one. Yes, I could.

Then she mentioned his name. Adonis! The guy was wearing a photographer’s vest. Adonis, the sainted one. His last name was Northlake. Had to be.

They were talking about feminism. Angleton was saying she was glad Northlake was a feminist. She couldn’t stand being around men who weren’t feminists.

Northlake grunted. From both the tone and enthusiasm of his grunt, he made it clear that he agreed with Angleton.

Now if Northlake had said he agreed with most rational feminists and supported their just complaints — which were legion, heaven knows — that would have been one thing. Even I did that. But I wondered what kind of approval rating Northlake had to achieve in order to qualify as a flat-out, no-arguments-asked feminist. A one-hundred-percent kowtow? And by what woman’s standard? Betty Friedan’s? Barbara Stanwyck’s?

I knew if I got to know Northlake, I might like him. He was probably a hell of a guy, just like Jenny said. In my opinion, however, he was an asshole of assholes for the sole reason that he had gotten to Jenny MacIvar before me; I was in no mood to give him a break or be generous in any way. I wanted to rise up goddammit and shout over the back of the booth: One does not deliver one’s balls to an ideological chopping block to earn a woman’s respect, fuckhead! One does one’s best to behave in a civilized manner, and let one’s actions do the talking! “Nine of diamonds,” the waitress called.

That was me. Food. I walked to the counter to retrieve my plastic basket of grub and cup of coffee. Lois Angleton watched me as I headed back; I slowed and said, “Excuse me, ma’am, but I believe I may have seen your photograph in the Vancouver Columbian. Are you by any chance the ornithologist in charge of the owl count?”

“Yes, I am.”

I put my chiliburger and coffee down on my table. I said, “Dr. Lois Angleton, is that the name?”

She was pleased that I’d remembered her name. “Yes, it is. And this is Adonis Northlake,