The rusty old pickup truck had been joined by a late-model Chevy with a scrape along the left side from headlight to taillight. Not many Cadillacs or BMWs in Dark Glades; mostly ancient or battered domestic iron. The economic expansion touted by politicians hadn’t reached into the swamp. Carver saw the big Harley outside Whiffy’s Restaurant and parked next to it. In the lowering dusk, heat was radiating in waves from the motorcycle’s recently raced engine. The restaurant’s broken neon sign was on and buzzing now, though it wasn’t yet dark. A couple of moths were fluttering around it as if fooled by the noise and feeble light. Whiffy’s was surprisingly large inside. Up front was a wide area of square gray Formica tables and the kind of molded plastic chairs—some red, some blue—found in waiting rooms. To the left, beyond the chairs, was a long serving counter with high stools. Opposite the counter were wooden booths with straight, high backs. On the back wall was a mounted blue marlin above a lineup of video machines that were zinging and boinging in soft electronic cacophony.
