Already they could see the twinkling lights, laid out in rectangular street patterns. Directly ahead, at the corporation boundary, Penny saw the flashing electric sign of a hamburger hut operated by Mark Fiello, a genial old Italian.
“We might stop there,” she suggested. “Mark will let us use his phone.”
“Also, he has good hamburgers and coffee,” Salt added. “I could go for some food!”
Mark, a stout, grizzled man in slightly soiled apron, was frying bacon and hamburgers at the grill as he shouted orders to a helper in the kitchen.
“You, Frankey!” he bellowed. “Git your nose outta dat ice cream and squeeze another quart of orange juice! What you think I pay you for—to eat me out of business?”
As Penny and Salt slid onto stools in front of the counter, he turned toward them to ask briskly: “What’ll it be, folks?”
“Now Mark, don’t give us the professional brush off,” Salt joked. “Make mine a hamburger with everything on.”
“And mine with everything off—especially onions,” added Penny.
“Two hamburgers coming right up,” chuckled Mark, flattening twin hunks of ground meat on the grill. “I giva you good beeg ones. One-a with, and one-a without. Haven’t seen you folks in a long while. How you been?”
“Pretty well, Mark, until tonight,” replied Penny. “May we use your phone?”