Free CRIME THRILLERS-A Box Set by Billie Sue Mosiman

packets, creamer packets, and a generic black plastic ashtray. Good God. Did they provide for the customers or what?
    The little waitress wore a short red change apron with black stitching across the front. Molly read it when she approached. "My name is Stinky."
    Molly suppressed a giggle threatening to get up and out.
    "Stinky?" she asked when the girl stood over her.
    The waitress looked down at the apron. "Uh, no, this ain't my apron. My name's Lynette."
    Molly thought that was pretty fortunate for the girl. "Just coffee right now. I'll look at a menu."
    Lynette bounced away and came back with a tan plastic mug of steamy java and a plastic-encased menu. There were black thumbprints on the front edges.
    Molly decided on the huevos rancheros . Two eggs served on a corn tortilla with beans, rice, and their own special sauce. $2.95. Sounded like a regular bargain if the heartburn didn't kill her.
    While she waited for the meal, Molly kept looking the place over. She didn't know what it was about truck stops that Cruise might like. The floor was black and white tiles. None too clean. The tables out in the center of the room had chairs with vinyl backs and seats of sick mustard-yellow. Bad color to have around food, she'd think. On white vinyl-covered walls hung wooden pictures of sunsets and Indians, a picture-frame clock of a semi-trailer truck parked in autumn leaves.
    In the booth facing Molly she saw the back of a driver's head. Leaning slightly to the left or right she could see around him to get a view of his partner's billed cap. It was black with a red-and-white eagle on the front. Beneath the eagle was the legend RIDE To LIVE, LIVE To RIDE. At least it didn't say BORN To LOSE.
    There was a salad and ice cream bar. Another waitress took care of the trade at the center tables. She was fiftyish, gray hair, blue pants uniform, and a light gray fleece-lined sweater jacket. She looked tired. Compared to the bouncy Lynette of the red apron, she looked dead.
    The huevos rancheros arrived and looked every bit as inviting as a roadkill. Molly's stomach did a flip-flop looking at how the fragile eggs were buried under the heaps of beans and rice.
    Lynette said, '"There's Tabasco sauce there if you want it."
    Molly nodded dumbly. She'd have to drink her coffee before she'd ever get up the courage to tackle this thing.
    While she sipped the black brew, two truckers entered trailed by a woman, dressed as they were, in jeans and sweatshirts and jackets. They passed Molly's booth. The woman had long blond hair. Bleached, but pretty. On the back of her black jacket was an American flag. Below the flag it read STONE MOUNTAIN. Molly knew where that was. In Georgia. A big ring of keys jingled and clanked on the woman's sturdy hips as she moved past. Molly thought she smelled the scorched scent of a hot radiator as they wove through tables to the back.
    Travelers. Just like her. Driving those big rigs and eating in dumps like this one.
    And Cruise liked them. She'd have to get him to confide in her just exactly what it was about bad art, scrubby jeans, and greasy food that he found intriguing.
    Then again, come to think of it, it was really highly amusing. She never saw Tabasco sauce on the cafe tables in South Florida. She'd never in her life seen a female truck driver. And thank God, she'd never known a girl named Stinky--and wouldn't, she guessed.
    The eggs were quite good despite their caked and drowned appearance. The beans were hot, the rice spicy. Molly ate every bite and burped politely behind a napkin. Damn gas bothered her like crazy when she ate spicy foods.
    Lynette didn't say anything to her about sitting at a table reserved for truckers. Probably because the place wasn't exactly packed to the rafters. Molly let her cup be refilled four times before she made any move to leave. She lingered, savoring the place, the sounds, the way the truckers moved beneath their thick jackets and their cowboy and gimmee hats. One fellow at the