"That'll be $9.87." Rebecca Ranghorn flipped up the top of the box, pulled out a glazed donut, and took bite. The young secretary behind her looked on in disbelief. She was so ready for the weekend. But first she had to get to the office and put in her lousy eight hours. Why couldn't this woman just pay and get out of the way? Rebecca tossed the box at the clerk. A couple of donuts flew out and fell on the floor behind the counter. "Those are yesterday's donuts. I told you to give me the fresh ones." "But, ma'am, these are the fresh--." The look in her eyes stopped him cold. He dumped the box in the trash and picked out a fresher dozen. "Now, that'll be $9.87, please." "Keep your drawers on, Jack." She sampled the new batch. "That's more like it." She threw a ten dollar bill on the counter and walked out with her donuts and large bottle of orange juice. Her enormous black 1979 Lincoln Continental Town Car was four feet longer and twice the weight of the young secretary's Toyota Corolla parked next to it. It was costing her a fortune to drive her dad's old car. But it made her feel close to him--even though he had been dead for eleven years. She rarely had an occasion to drive out of town--and it was not a big town. Sherman, Texas has about 36,000 residents. She pulled into the old strip mall parking lot. Most of the stores and other businesses were barely hanging on. The place hadn't seen decent shopping traffic since the 1980s. But it was the perfect location for Rebecca and her partner. They didn't need shoppers. All they needed was cheap office space. Theirs was narrow, but deep, with a reception area, two offices and a bathroom. Question: The look in whose eyes stopping him cold? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- The Clerk
- Rebecca
- The Secretary
Rebecca
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It was their first official date. Greg Tenorly and Cynthia Blockerman had been through quite an ordeal together--being hunted by police for the murder of her abusive husband while they ran from the real killer. But all that was behind them now. All charges against them had been dropped, and Cynthia's husband had been buried. And the rumors would have died down eventually if they had gone their separate ways. They could feel the stares as they walked to their table. Greg had requested the most private booth, way in the back. Coreyville Pasta House was the oldest Italian restaurant in town. And still the best. Mama Castilla had run the place for over thirty years. She had taken over for her grandfather in 1973. A sign on the wall said so. Cynthia ordered the Fettuccini Alfredo. Greg went with his favorite, the Chicken Parmesan. Both ordered iced tea and salad. The bread and olive oil with roasted garlic and pepper came with every meal. Greg could not resist great bread. And this was the best. He tore off a chunk as soon as the waitress delivered it. Cynthia would wait for the salad. "So we're finally on a real date," said Greg. "Yeah. So how does it feel?" "Kinda weird and scary and...wonderful." Cynthia smiled and Greg momentarily forgot all about the amazing aroma in the restaurant. All he wanted to do was kiss her. But that would have to wait. So, his hunger came rushing back. Cynthia's mood turned serious. "I don't want to spoil our date, but I've got to tell you something." Greg wondered if he had done something wrong. He could fix it--whatever it was. "I've asked Mom to move in with me." "Why? I thought she was happy living in Marshall." "She was." "What do you mean? What happened?" "The other night a friend of hers was murdered. And the woman lived on her street. They killed her nurse too." Question: Mama Castilla ran The Coreyville Pasta House for over 30 years. How did she get that job? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- It was a family business
- A good Italian restaurant requires authenticity
- She served bread with olive oil and roasted garlic with every meal
- not enough information
It was a family business
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Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can. He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand." He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch" A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake. He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. Question: How long did George lay on the floor? === The answer to the above question is
OPTIONS:
- A day.
- Several minutes.
- Two weeks.
- not enough information
Several minutes.
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