can’t handle. What, or who, is it?
He surveyed the dining room. Reggie was off-loading a plate of wings to the young couple in the corner at table 6. Reggie
was a nice guy, always well groomed. He dressed loud, a white kid from Greeley who drove a heap of a Cadillac he called The
Lac and fancied himself a playa. He seemed to be on top of his game, his patrons content with their food.
Jamie had been circling a businessman hiding behind a wall of newspaper, the untouched mountain of nachos at table 9, slick
blond hair, the guy’s sleeve appearing like a puppet every few minutes to hoist another free refill on his Arnold Palmer.
Good kid, Jamie – earnest, motivated. Never needed a push, her pixie hair and peasant thighs and that firm little runner’s
butt in perpetual motion, and she always earned a decent tip. If there was trouble here, it wasn’t with her tables.
A head of wavy blond hair high up on a golden brown neck bobbed by and Mick did a double-take. Oh, you gotta be shittin’ me.
Brett was supposed to have been cut over an hour ago, but there he goes with another pitcher of Buff Gold, nowhere better
to be. Yukking it up with the rugby studs at 14, the ones getting loud in their grass-stained elbow pads. Brett was a semi-pro
sand volleyball player with a volleyball for a head and a penchant for milking the time-clock. In an industry where evenstrong profit margins were eight to twelve per cent, mismanaging payroll was the lethal serpent in the garden.
‘You’re long overdue, Brett.’ Mick snapped his fingers. ‘Time to clock out.’
Brett didn’t hear him. Goddamn Alt Rock satellite channel cranked, Chris Cornell caterwauling off the window panes another
brain-numbing and unnecessary expense.
Expenses, payroll, money, accountant – where was Eugene Sapphire, anyway? Boom, that was it. Maybe that was why Mick’s gut
was full of acid. Wasn’t their monthly meeting today? Mick retrieved the new Droid Amy had bought him, poked, scrolled, scoped
his calendar: nothing about the accountant, but then maybe the new phone hadn’t synced his calendar. Maybe the meeting was
next week. Good. Next week was always better than this week. Mick didn’t want to hear about money.
He holstered the device. ‘You’re bleeding me dry, Brett!’
‘You need something, Mick?’ Jamie dipped behind the bar with a round corked tray piled with glasses and a half-eaten burger
the size of a car tire, it’s center flesh bleeding over a wasteland of fries. Pig portions, fat customers, more wasted overhead.
Time to design a new menu, start interviewing chefs.
‘The hell’s Brett still doing here?’ The edge in his voice sent Jamie back a step, so he softened the follow-up. ‘I told you
to cut him loose at five. We’re dead.’
Jamie paled. ‘I thought maybe … Amy wanted to make sure we were covered.’
‘I know, I know. You didn’t know I was going to be here.’ Mick smiled, realizing he had slung his wrath in the wrong direction.
He shot more club soda, slugged it back, stifled a burp. ‘Thanks, Jamie. You’re the one holding the entire trapeze show together
these days. Another Arnold for the newspaper man?’
‘The news – oh, no, he’s fine.’ Jamie was blushing, pulling her lip. The customer had gotten under her skin in some way.
‘Everything all right?’ Mick said.
Jamie glanced toward the hovering
Daily Camera
. ‘He’s a little strange.’
‘He hit on you? You want me to take care of him?’
‘Oh, no, not like that. Though he is kind of handsome. He just looks sorta not there? He keeps smiling but his eyes … They’re,
like, dry.’
Mick panned the room, got distracted by the rugby team. They seemed to have multiplied, their scrum erupting. Two combatants
lining up plastic cups, the teams swinging pitchers like steins in a mead hall. A ping-pong ball
thwocked
wetly on the table and the jeers of six college boys scraped the rafters. ‘Drink,
He surveyed the dining room. Reggie was off-loading a plate of wings to the young couple in the corner at table 6. Reggie
was a nice guy, always well groomed. He dressed loud, a white kid from Greeley who drove a heap of a Cadillac he called The
Lac and fancied himself a playa. He seemed to be on top of his game, his patrons content with their food.
Jamie had been circling a businessman hiding behind a wall of newspaper, the untouched mountain of nachos at table 9, slick
blond hair, the guy’s sleeve appearing like a puppet every few minutes to hoist another free refill on his Arnold Palmer.
Good kid, Jamie – earnest, motivated. Never needed a push, her pixie hair and peasant thighs and that firm little runner’s
butt in perpetual motion, and she always earned a decent tip. If there was trouble here, it wasn’t with her tables.
A head of wavy blond hair high up on a golden brown neck bobbed by and Mick did a double-take. Oh, you gotta be shittin’ me.
Brett was supposed to have been cut over an hour ago, but there he goes with another pitcher of Buff Gold, nowhere better
to be. Yukking it up with the rugby studs at 14, the ones getting loud in their grass-stained elbow pads. Brett was a semi-pro
sand volleyball player with a volleyball for a head and a penchant for milking the time-clock. In an industry where evenstrong profit margins were eight to twelve per cent, mismanaging payroll was the lethal serpent in the garden.
‘You’re long overdue, Brett.’ Mick snapped his fingers. ‘Time to clock out.’
Brett didn’t hear him. Goddamn Alt Rock satellite channel cranked, Chris Cornell caterwauling off the window panes another
brain-numbing and unnecessary expense.
Expenses, payroll, money, accountant – where was Eugene Sapphire, anyway? Boom, that was it. Maybe that was why Mick’s gut
was full of acid. Wasn’t their monthly meeting today? Mick retrieved the new Droid Amy had bought him, poked, scrolled, scoped
his calendar: nothing about the accountant, but then maybe the new phone hadn’t synced his calendar. Maybe the meeting was
next week. Good. Next week was always better than this week. Mick didn’t want to hear about money.
He holstered the device. ‘You’re bleeding me dry, Brett!’
‘You need something, Mick?’ Jamie dipped behind the bar with a round corked tray piled with glasses and a half-eaten burger
the size of a car tire, it’s center flesh bleeding over a wasteland of fries. Pig portions, fat customers, more wasted overhead.
Time to design a new menu, start interviewing chefs.
‘The hell’s Brett still doing here?’ The edge in his voice sent Jamie back a step, so he softened the follow-up. ‘I told you
to cut him loose at five. We’re dead.’
Jamie paled. ‘I thought maybe … Amy wanted to make sure we were covered.’
‘I know, I know. You didn’t know I was going to be here.’ Mick smiled, realizing he had slung his wrath in the wrong direction.
He shot more club soda, slugged it back, stifled a burp. ‘Thanks, Jamie. You’re the one holding the entire trapeze show together
these days. Another Arnold for the newspaper man?’
‘The news – oh, no, he’s fine.’ Jamie was blushing, pulling her lip. The customer had gotten under her skin in some way.
‘Everything all right?’ Mick said.
Jamie glanced toward the hovering
Daily Camera
. ‘He’s a little strange.’
‘He hit on you? You want me to take care of him?’
‘Oh, no, not like that. Though he is kind of handsome. He just looks sorta not there? He keeps smiling but his eyes … They’re,
like, dry.’
Mick panned the room, got distracted by the rugby team. They seemed to have multiplied, their scrum erupting. Two combatants
lining up plastic cups, the teams swinging pitchers like steins in a mead hall. A ping-pong ball
thwocked
wetly on the table and the jeers of six college boys scraped the rafters. ‘Drink,
Similar Books
