Shadows on the Mountain

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We can get back in there, kill a couple, then come out in a week, ten days at most,” Davis said. His map was spread between us, at lunch in a restaurant on the ground floor of a downtown Anchorage hotel. It covered the whole table, dangling almost to my lap. Davis’s arms pinned it down; his hands lay across my side of the table. I leaned back with my arms crossed.

It was driving the waiter crazy, that map. He’d brought the bread basket and butter dish, waiting pointedly for us to make enough space to set them down. Davis lifted one arm and shoved the map over with the other, clearing maybe four inches on the table edge. He looked tired, like he’d been out late.

The waiter looked toward the front register; a corner of his mouth twitched. Davis didn’t budge further or even look up. Finally the waiter set down the basket and dish and pushed gingerly into the map. When he let go the map recoiled, shoving the basket to the edge. The waiter and I watched, expecting to see it fall. Davis just continued his spiel.

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