Free Thai Die by Monica Ferris Page A

track of estate sales and reads used-car ads, and when he sees one of these old tanks for sale, he goes and buys it. There’s always a market for them up here. I love ’em. This is my third one. My first was twenty years old. The older I get, the further back I reach for my cars.” She laughed.
    “Okay, I understand where,” said Phil, who was also sitting in the backseat. “My question is, Why? Why buy something like this? It must get terrible mileage.”
    “Well, it doesn’t get the best mileage, that’s true,” admitted Bershada. “But suppose I had one of those modern mini-cars? How would you decide who has to sit in back? Best two falls out of three?”
    Phil chuckled. “I’ll admit, it is roomy back here.”
    As they settled back in their seats, Bershada turned off Highway 7 onto 169 South. This would take them all the way to Amboy.
    The sky was a mottled gray, but it wasn’t windy, and the temperature daringly approached twenty degrees. A scant couple of miles later, the car started across a long bridge over a marsh. Some construction anomaly gave cars crossing it an amusing ride: kuh-thump as the tires went over a joint, then a gentle whump as they drove over a slight depression. Sixty-two miles an hour was the optimum speed, and with a little effort—the car’s big engine thought seventy a nice cruising speed—Bershada held the speedometer right there. No one in the car spoke as they went kuh-thump , whump ; kuh-thump , whump ; kuh-thump , whump ; but all were nodding in time to it. Anyone who drove Highway 169 frequently was familiar with this particular rhythm, which worked in either direction, and the few cars in sight were all bobbing across the bridge, kuh-thump , whump , as if in some happy ritual dance.
    Highway 169 was a freeway until it crossed the deep, broad valley of the Minnesota River, where it turned into a two-lane highway. Bershada tried to go no more than seven miles over the speed limit. The highway was clear of snow, and traffic had thinned to almost nothing, which didn’t help with her efforts not to drive too fast. Once across the river, the land was low hills running parallel to the highway. A dense line of leafless trees marked the Minnesota River not far away, and the highway curved now and again to stay near it. They skirted the small towns of Jordan and Belle Plaine, whose apple stands and garden centers looked forlorn in the winter landscape.
    Half an hour later, the highway ahead dropped out of sight, and a sign announced the approach of the town of Le Sueur. And there, on top of one of the hills, higher then the naked gray trees, was a huge figure of a green man in a brief costume of leaves, waving a greeting.
    “Well, looky there!” said Phil, waving back. “I haven’t seen him in a long while.”
    “Who?” asked Doris, looking vainly in that direction as the car drove by the gigantic billboard and started down into a deep valley.
    “Come on,” said Shelly, “haven’t you bought Le Sueur peas? He’s the Jolly Green Giant, and this is his valley.”
    At the bottom, they crossed a long bridge over the Minnesota River. Not long afterward, then approached St. Peter, a pretty, little, old brick city on the banks of that same river.
    South of St. Peter, the skies cleared somewhat, and shafts of sunlight turned the highway here and there a blinding white. The Minnesota River had gone west, on its way to caress New Ulm.
    The land beside Highway 169 rose to become very flat; the only irregularities in the scene were old, shallow drifts of snow making curved gray snakes across the barren fields.
    “Looks like Kansas out there,” noted Bershada.
    “Looks like North Dakota to me,” said Shelly.
    “Looks lonesome,” said Alice.
    “I think you’re all right,” said Phil.
    Then came another valley as a major city, Mankato, came into view. “Oh my, it’s grown a lot since I saw it last,” said Doris.
    “When did you see it last?” asked Shelly.
    “Years ago. I