Page 15 of Hidden Aces in Deadwood

“Good Morning.” The one who knows where to seat us says as she lifts two menus. “Two of you today?”

“Yes.” Blaze smiles brightly.

“Booth or table?” She asks as she leads us to the left where Oggie’s Sports Bar and Emporium is located. I glance to the right, to see a nicer setup for dinning but that area is completely empty. The chairs are upside down on the tables and the lights are turned off. No breakfast on that side.

Huge TVs are side by side all around Oggie’s. A polished cocktail bar is in the center. Tables and chairs radiate out from the bar and booths hug the walls. We sit in a booth with high leather padded backs which provides a simulation of privacy, per Blaze’s request.

Our menus are placed in front of us. “Stacy, your server, will be with you in a moment.”

“Thank you.” Blaze says very politely.

I stare at him. “Who are you?”

He laughs. “Why do you say that?”

I smile. “You’re always so… such a… I’ve just not seen you act so cavalier.”

“Cavalier?” He laughs harder. “I’m always cavalier.”

“Not really.” I mumble.

“Hi, I’m Stacy. What can I get you to drink.” Our waitress poises a pen over her pad. She is tall, like a volleyball player, and just as lean. Her sun-highlighted hair is swept back in a ponytail. She isn’t wearing makeup, nor does she need any. Her youthful complexion is glowing with vitality. I consider asking her if she’s in sports, but keep my questions to myself.

“Coffee, please,” I say.

“I’ll have the same.” Blaze put his menu down.

“Are you ready to order?” she asks.

“Not me.” I say quickly. “I haven’t even looked at the menu.” If he tries to order for me, I’m walking out. I lift the menu and peruse it thoroughly, taking my time. He brings the ornery little kid out in me, and I just cannot help but to taunt him. I take a lot longer than I need to.

The volleyball waitress disappears.

“Everything is good.” Blaze offers.

I glance at him over the laminated menu. “Uh huh.” I continue studying all the choices. When I lay the menu down at last, he smiles. “What did you decide?”

“What are you having?” I ask.

“Chicken fried steak breakfast combo.” He states proudly.

My eyebrows go up before I can stop the judgmental reaction. “Really? That’s a pretty heavy breakfast.”

“What are you having?” He lays one hand over the other, patiently waiting for my answer.

“Quiche Lorraine and sourdough toast.”

His eyebrows shoot up on his forehead and his lips pucker, slightly. “Alright. I’ll bet it’s good.”

“If not, I can always make me some scrambled eggs when I get home.” I cock my head to one side, daring him to respond.

I feel such an expectancy. What is he about to say or do? Why did he insist on me joining him for breakfast? Why here? What was that four coins in the slot machine about?

Chapter Eight?

“So, what’s the stake out about?” I ask after I swallow the last bite of my individual-size quiche.

Once our food had arrived, we concentrated on eating and very little on talking. I prefer to eat and not talk anyway, because if a person talks to me or asks me questions, I can’t help but to reply. The problem is, when I talk while eating, I have a tendency to “show my food,” as mother used to say. She could never break me of that habit. It’s better for me to just focus on eating or focus on talking, and not to mix the two.

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