Read The Man Who Ate the 747 for Free Online

sun flattened what was already flat enough.
    He pulled to a stop in front of the Hereford Inn, a red-shingled saloon on Main Street, got out of the car and stretched his legs. The wind streamed across his face, a warm wind, different from the sharp, quick gusts on the East Coast. This was an old wind, roaming the plains, covering hundreds of miles, taking with it, speck by speck, the towns and lives along the way. The wind seemed to welcome him to Superior.
    The Hereford Inn was deserted. The room was long and dark and smelled of frying pans and beer. A policeman under a big hat read the newspaper in the corner.
    “Morning,” said the woman at the bar. She was short, squat, and stuffed into her red and white uniform. The pin on her blouse said: MABEL.
    “Can I help you?”
    “Cup of coffee, please.”
    “Sure, anything else? Eggs? A doughnut? We make ’em fresh.”
    “You got glazed?”
    “Uh-huh,” she said. “You passing through?”
    “Not sure yet.” J.J. took a bite of the doughnut.
    “That’ll be a dollar even.”
    “Got a question for you,” J.J. said. “You happen to know a guy around here eating an airplane?”
    “Guy eating a what?” Mabel glanced over at the policeman, who looked up from his newspaper. “Why would anyone in his right mind do something like that?”
    “Good question,” J.J. said.
    “Hey, Shrimp,” Mabel called out. “You hear about anyone eating an airplane in these parts?”
    The policeman sprang from the table. He was as short and skinny as a Slim Jim, his slight stick figure overwhelmed by the folds of a well-starched uniform. His gaunt face was hidden under the shadow of an enormous hat. Strapped to his slender waist, his Colt .45 automatic looked more like a cannon.
    “Who’s asking?” the policeman said.
    “J.J. Smith. From New York City. I’m with
The Book of Records
and I’m here to—”
    By the look on their faces, he knew he had their attention.
    “What do you know? New York City,” Mabel said.
    “Welcome to Superior,” the policeman said. “You just pull into town?”
    “Just got here.” J.J. handed over a business card.
    The police chief inspected it carefully.
    “‘Keeper of the Records,’” he read. “My wife is never gonna believe this. You know, she has the worst breath on earth. You might want to look into that.”
    Mabel laughed. “Speaking of records, you should see my boyfriend, Hoss. He’s got the world’s biggest, uh,—”
    J.J. cut her off quickly. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. Can you help me find this man eating the plane?”
    The police chief tightened his belt a notch.
    “We can help you find anything you want,” he said. “We know everyone’s business around here.”
    “That’s great. Where do I—”
    “Cool your heels,” the chief said. “We like to take our time here, get to know each other. I’m Chief Bushee.”
    “You can call him Shrimp,” Mabel said. “Everyone does.”
    The chief put his hand on J.J.’s shoulder and led him back to the table. “Keep the coffee coming, Mabel. We’re gonna visit here for a while.”
    J.J. slid into his chair. He wanted to blast out of the Hereford Inn, find the man eating the plane, and get started. He could hear his mother’s voice as she put him to bed, reading from the storybook about the unruly child named Max: “And now, let the wild rumpus start!” He wanted to start the rumpus, but he had to keep his cool.
    “We’ve got a lot to talk about,” the chief said. “You ever hear about the prison escape up in Grand Island? Guy made a 30-foot rope out of dental floss and climbed right out the window. Took him two years. Is that a world record?”
    The blue blazer with the gilded crest flapped madly on its hanger in the backseat as the Taurus bumped along the two-laner heading north out of town. The road wandered past a cemetery and a few farms before dribbling into the fields. J.J. drove along looking for the old windmill.
    Coffee with Shrimp had gone for more than