When a new McDonalds opened up in Ronan, they put “HIRING” up on their sign, and were flooded with hundreds of applications within hours. This is probably why a factory that assembles any kind of cordless electric drill you could buy opened up in this small reservation town, simply because there were a lot of people who were eager to work for minimum wage.

Eloise was one of them. She blended in seamlessly with the crowd of middle-aged, dark haired, five-foot-tall workers who were getting ready to eat lunch in the factory cafeteria. She walked up to the woman who didn’t look like the others, looked her in the eye, and said:

“You’re in the witness protection program, aren’t you?”

The tall woman’s eyes widened. She didn’t say anything, but backed up a step.

“You’re black. You have that look. My neighbor, years ago, was just like you.” Eloise smiled and walked toward the serving line, and Linda Jones followed her. “If you’re running from other black people, you’re safe here, someone did you a favor, but if you’re running from the mob then someone sent you here to be executed. This is where old mafia folks go to retire.

“I had a job once, slopping pigs and mowing grass for this guy. It took longer to get through his security system than it did to do his chores. He didn’t know a thing about animals, but he wanted them. Funny people. I think they like it here because we mind our own business. We don’t want to be around outsiders.” Eloise caught herself, “Oh no, I didn’t mean to say that I don’t like you, just that people here don’t really go out of their way to get to know strangers who move in.

“If it is mafia that you’re running from, get your butt outta here tonight, maybe to Canada. Get yourself a new fake name, something that sounds more black.” Eloise glanced back at Linda as she turned to find a seat. “But you don’t look like that’s your problem. If you're hiding from gangsters, then your husband was probably a cop who got shot, or something like that. You’re like Diane Smith. She’s a really good lady. You should look her up, she runs the fabric shop on Main Street. She’s been here for thirty years, ever since her husband was shot. Everyone needs friends who understand what they’re going through.” Linda silently followed Eloise and sat with her, setting her tray opposite from my mom. She took a slurp of coffee.

“It’s safe to drink today,” said Eloise.

“What do you mean?” asked Linda.

A curvy young blond woman in flashy clothes stepped out of the office. Eloise pointed with her eyes at the woman. “Sometimes the boss’s tramp and her friends make the coffee, and they put stuff in it. We signal when it’s not safe to drink by hiding the stirring straws.”

Linda’s mouth dropped open. “I had a few days where I wondered if I needed to go to the hospital. I felt so weird. I would have never guessed it could be the coffee.”

“Yea, only the tweakers drink it when the straws are gone,” said Eloise.

“What do they put in it?” asked Linda. Eloise shrugged.

“Has a mob hit ever happened here?” asked Linda in a conspiratorial tone.

“Oh yea, back in the early Eighties. We got this priest . . . let me back up, normally the Catholic church sends ninety-year-old priests who refuse to quit chanting in Latin, or child molesters to Ronan, but once they sent a handsome young priest. He didn’t seem like he was interested in anyone’s wife, or child, and he was energetic, and preached mass in English. Everyone wondered why he was here. We thought that he must have really ticked somebody off to end up in this hole. A few months later he disappeared, and all they found was his blood on a shovel. Later we found out that he was trying to get the Mafia Dons back in New York or somewhere, excommunicated. Whoever sent him here, wasn’t sending the poor kid here to hide.”

“And here I thought that these guys,” Linda flicked her eyes toward the boss’s office “were shitty bosses,” said Linda.