"Poor girl?"Paul repeated. "She's a miserable self-absorbed idiot whose only claim to fame was that she was Neely Crenshaw's girlfriend."
"Yes, but those legs."
They both smiled for a long time. The waitress brought their pancakes and sausage and refilled their coffees. As Paul drenched his plate with maple syrup, he began talking again. "Two years ago, we had a big bankers' convention in Vegas. Mona was with me. She got bored, went to the room. I got bored, so I walked along the Strip, late at night. I ducked into one of the older casinos, and guess who I saw?"
"Tessa Canyon."
"Tessa was shuffling booze, a cocktail waitress in one of those tight little costumes that's low in the front and high in the rear.Bleached hair, thick makeup, twenty or so extra pounds. She didn't see me so I watched her for a few minutes. She looked older than thirty. The odd thing was how she performed. When she got near her customers at the tables, the smile came on with the purring little voice that says, 'Take me upstairs.'The glib one-liners.The bumping and rubbing.Shameless flirting with a bunch of drunks. The woman just wants to be loved."
"I tried my best."
"She's a sad case."
"That's why I dumped her. She won't come back for the funeral, will she?"
"Maybe.If there's a chance she'll bump into you, then yes, she'll be here. On the other hand, she ain't lookin' too good, and with Screamer looks are everything."
"Her parents are still here?"
"Yeah."
A chubby man wearing a John Deere cap eased to their table as if he was trespassing. "Just wanted to say hello,Neely ," he said, almost ready to bow. "Tim Nunley, down at the Ford place," he said, offering a hand as if it might be ignored. Neely shook it and smiled."Used to work on your daddy's cars."
"I remember you," Neely lied, but the lie was worth the effort. Mr. Nunley's smile doubled in size and he squeezedNeely's hand harder.
"I thought you would," Mr. Nunley said, glancing at his table for vindication. "Good to see you back here. You were the greatest."
"Thank you," Neely said, releasing his hand and grabbing a fork. Mr. Nunley backedaway, still waiting to bow, then took his coat and left the restaurant.
The conversations were still muted around the tables, as if the wake had already begun. Paul finished a mouthful and leaned in low. "Four years ago we had a good team.Won the first nine games.Undefeated. I was sitting right here eating the same thing I'm eating now, on a Friday morning, game day, and, I swear this is true, the topic of conversation that morning was The Streak. Not the old streak, but a new one. These people were ready for a new streak. Never mind a winning season, or a conference title, or even a state championship, they're all peanuts. This town wants eighty, ninety, maybe a hundred wins in a row."
Neely looked around quickly then returned to his breakfast. "I've never understood it," he said. "These are nice folks—mechanics, truck drivers, insurance salesmen, builders, maybe a lawyer, maybe a banker.Solid small-town citizens, but not exactly earthshakers. I mean, nobody here is making a million bucks. But they're entitled to a state championship every year, right?"