CHAPTER NINE
It was Marvia’s town so they took her ’67 Mustang. She picked a place in El Cerrito that she said had a friendly bar and generous portions of plain food. Lindsey was relieved, he’d half-expected her to name one of Berkeley’s exotic restaurants. Those places were all the same. The parking lots were clogged with BMWs and Acuras and the restaurants were filled with white wine sipping yuppies and the menus were in a language known only to the angels and to semi-professional gourmets.
The place Marvia picked was called the Silver Dollar and the parking lot had Buicks and Plymouths and a couple of embarrassed-looking Toyotas in it, all clustered protectively around a pristine, snow-white Thunderbird that had to be thirty years old at the least.
The bar was dark and three-quarters
