“Sheriff Dunne, what can I get you?” their waitress said, patting the side of her beehive, searching for the pencil nub that might’ve disappeared in the early eighties. “The usual. Thanks, Trudy,” he said. “Black coffee and a baked potato with cheese, coming right up. Yer a creature of habit, George,” she said, a girlish giggle in her voice. This exchange revealed two things: that Sheriff George Dunne didn’t understand how meals worked, and that their waitress was—of course—named Trudy.
