Ten year old Homer Easton goes up against bumbling horse thieves in this rollicking tale.

                  Truck Eats
     As their truck barreled down the road in the dead of night, Rocco and Bart noticed a blinking sign: “Truck Eats Restaurant. Next right.” 
     Bart covered Homer’s ears. “Eat first, then whack him.”
     “Whack him, then eat.”
     “Nah,” said Bart, “I don’t want to risk losing my appetite.”
     “Suit yourself.”
     A few minutes later the truck pulled into Truck Eats and Bart, Rocco, and Homer entered the nearly empty restaurant.
     “The royals use the john when they can, not when they have to,” Rocco informed Bart. “I’ll be right back.”
     Bart mimicked him when he was out of earshot. “Royals-shmoyals, blah, blah, blah.” 
     Bart and Homer took seats at the counter. Bart opened a menu and studied it, but when Homer followed suit Bart snatched the menu away from him. “You ain’t gonna need this where—”  
     Rocco appeared. He grabbed the menu from Bart and stuck it in Homer’s hand. “Idiot,” he rasped. “Think how it’ll look if we eat and the kid doesn’t.” 
     A plump, red-faced waitress wearing a smiley button proclaiming “I’m Waitress Annie, and I love to serve you!” stepped up to the counter. “Hi, folks,” she chirped with astonishing good cheer for such an ungodly hour, “thank you for stopping at Truck Eats. What can I get you?”
     "I'll have the Saddleman's Stew," said Rocco.
     Bart closed his menu. “Same for me. With ketchup.”
     “You got it,” Waitress Annie said, plunking a squirt container of ketchup on the counter. “And you, little man?” she asked Homer with a toothy grin.
     The boy cringed as her face loomed above him like a laughing gargoyle. “The Hanged Man’s Hotdog with the works.”
     “Ain’t he a card.” She ambled away, chuckling. 
     The men were on Homer like a pooch to the bone. “Try that again, and you’re toast,” hissed Rocco. 
     But Waitress Annie had the ears of a rottweiler. She turned. “Want a side of toast?”
     Rocco flashed his not-so-pearly whites and nodded.
     “White, wheat, or sourdough?”
     “White,” said Rocco. A muscle in his cheek started twitching. 
     She scrawled something on her pad and disappeared into the kitchen. Rocco set upon Homer, muttering and gritting his teeth. 
     Bart jumped up and shook Rocco. “Get a hold of yourself. Don’t forget, when this job is over, we’re home free.”
     “I told you we should have done him first,” growled Rocco.
     Homer tapped Bart’s shoulder insistently. “I have to go.”
     “Hold it in, kid,” said Bart.
     “I can’t. I have to go now.” To drive his point home, Homer hopped from foot to foot. 
     Bart and Rocco exchanged looks and Rocco nodded.
     “All right, come on,” grumbled Bart, and off they went.

     The drab, windowless cell that was the men’s restroom at Truck Eats boasted one urinal and two stalls. Bart entered with Homer, who disappeared into the right stall. 
     “I can’t go if anyone is there.”
     “I can’t go if anyone is there,” mimicked Bart in a soprano voice. “This is your only chance, kid. Do it or not, I don’t care. But I’m not going anywhere.”
     “Then it’ll take a while. Your dinner will get cold.” 
     Bart considered that. “I’ll be right outside. Make it fast.” 
     Bart left the restroom and stood by the door, tapping his foot. The waitress winked at him as she passed by with steaming plates of food. He paced back and forth. Finally he knocked on the door. “Hey kid, hurry it up.” But there was no response. “Kid?” 
     Bart went inside just as Homer came out of the stall, smiling. A strip of toilet paper trailed from his shoe. At the sight of the twirling paper, Bart again heard Rocco’s voice intoning, “The royals use the john when they can, not when they have to.” After absorbing this profound wisdom, Bart eyed Homer. “Wait here. Don’t move, don’t even blink.” 
     Homer nodded, still smiling. Bart went into the left stall and stared at the floor while he undid his pants. He settled in, then looked up—and gaped in horror at a message written in ketchup on the back of the door. It read “Help! I’ve been kidnapped by truck 2KTSO47.”
     “Aaah!” screamed Bart, jumping up and fixing his pants. He wiped the message off with a wad of toilet paper, threw the paper on the floor, and burst out of the stall.
     He saw no kid. The air vent grating flapped. He got down on his hands and knees, removed the grate, and squeezed in up to his shoulders. “Grrrr!” roared Bart, spying a moving strand of toilet paper. He felt his face swelling and flushing with rage. 
     Bart hotfooted it to Rocco, who hunched over the counter, devouring his stew.
     “He’s gone,” squeaked Bart, suddenly losing his voice. 
     “What!” exploded Rocco. “I leave you alone for one minute—” Rocco dumped Bart’s dinner on his head. He leaped to his feet, throwing cash down on the counter. “You stupid . . .” 
     Sputtering and blinking, Bart reached over the counter and grabbed a rag to mop himself off. He found chunks of beef stuck in his hair, and popped them into his mouth, chewing tentatively.
     Waitress Annie waddled up, her mouth a cavernous 0. Before she could speak, Bart and Rocco ran out of the restaurant and circled around to the back. But there were only vehicles in the parking lot, no Homer. They inspected the open air vent on the side of the building.
     “He’s got to be here somewhere,” declared Rocco. “You take the bushes, I’ll check the road.”

     A man exited the restaurant, climbed into his car, and started it up. Homer rolled out from underneath and banged on the driver’s window. But the man jumped at the sight of the boy’s soot-blackened face and peeled out, sending him flying. 
     Spotting Bart, Homer dived behind a truck. He heard a car pull up, doors slam, then muffled voices and footsteps. Suddenly a hand clamped over his mouth.
     Homer was dragged out of hiding. He bit the hand and ran.
     “Oowwww!” Bart danced in agony, clutching his hand. 
     Homer ducked behind a car and edged along its sides, testing the doors—all locked. As he slid past the trunk, he brushed against its lock, and it popped. Slipping inside the trunk, he gently pulled it shut.

     Waitress Annie studied a picture of Homer. “He was just here, folks,” she informed the tense couple who had introduced themselves as Mort and Rona Easton. “Left not ten minutes ago. Such a cute little boy.”
     Rona beamed with pride, then gripped Mort’s arm. “He was here.”
     “Who was he with?” asked Mort.
     “Two men—rough-looking types,” answered Waitress Annie, a hint of worry creasing her usually unfurrowed brow.
     “Where did they go?”
     “I don’t know. All of a sudden they ran out.”
     “Is there anything else you can tell us?” urged Mort. 
     Annie remembered reading in the newspaper that most people were bad witnesses and didn’t notice what was right in front of their eyes. She longed to be a good witness. Then it came to her. “The boy went to the bathroom and one of the men waited outside.”
     She searched every cell of her memory banks. “That’s all I remember.”
     “I’ll be right back,” Mort said to Rona, and headed to the rear of the restaurant.

     Mort entered the men’s room and peered into the left stall. He gasped and clutched his heart at the sight of the red-stained wad of toilet paper on the floor, and more red smeared on the door. 
     Mort hastened to the dining area. “Call the police,” he commanded Waitress Annie, struggling to control his emotions. “It’s an emergency. Have them reach me at this number.” He gave her a card, then grabbed Rona and ushered her out of the restaurant.

     Rocco and Bart trudged back to their truck empty-handed.
     “Forget the kid,” said Rocco. “We have to get going.”
     “And what’ll we tell Crawford?”
     Rocco shrugged. “Whatever we want. How will he know the difference?”
     “Why didn’t we think of that in the first place?” Bart mused as they got into the truck. 

     The horse van charged out of the parking lot. Mort and Rona jumped out of its way, then rushed across the lot to their rental car. 
     Hands shaking, Mort struggled to put his key in the ignition.
     “What is it, darling?” asked Rona, her voice surprisingly tender.
     He turned to her with tears in his eyes. “We have to be prepared for the worst.”
     “What do you mean?” she said, her eyes filling up. “We’ll find him. No one would hurt a little boy—”
     But Mort looked away, his face twisted in anguish.
     “Would they? Mort?” Rona sobbed uncontrollably.
     Holding her tight, Mort forced out the words she wanted to hear. “Of course not."
     Sensing his strength, Rona calmed down. Mort started the car and pulled out onto a rough access road.
     Inside the trunk, Homer bounced around like a ping pong ball. “Uggh! Aaah! Eeeh!"