Jack Murphy laughed, undid his own apron and put on his coat. “I’ll see you in the morning. Oh, in the middle booth are a couple of teenagers. They’ve been good, sipping coffee for a while. If they get loud or anything, I want you to throw them out. I know them, they’re good kids, but sometimes they get loud, you know? Be nice about it, but don’t take any of their crap. Got it? And, if they sit too long, throw them out. This is a business. Not a coffee shop. If I have a customer who comes in and wants to eat, and there is no where for him to sit—and some guys have a booth for several hours with little more than a few bucks on their tab . . . hear what I’m getting at?”
“Loud and clear,” Michael said.
He pushed through the swinging door and stared in awe at the mass of people gathered in booths, at the tables and sitting at the counter. There had to be at least thirty people in Jack’s Joint. Even after sleeping like a rock, Michael suddenly felt exhausted. “Holy crap.”
Chapter 9
The heat from the grill worked to warm Michael’s bones. He knew after being outside scraping ice off his car and then waiting for Murphy to let him in the back door, it would take a while to thaw his bones. He thought he would never warm up.
The orders came in fast. Hamburgers, hot dogs, chili and french fries; those were the top items being ordered. While things grilled, he filled coffee cups. While he cooked, he tried to be mindful of who was in the place. He did not want to let someone skip out without paying a bill. He saw no way to prevent it from happening, if someone decided to do so. So far, people were paying.
Michael kept an eye on the two teens in the center booth. Both were white, and big. They looked like football players. He watched them now and again. Each time, the teens seemed engrossed in conversation. They animatedly talked using hand gestures. Here were two young guys hanging out, drinking coffee and staying out of trouble. He saw no reason to throw them out into the cold, even if they were nursing coffee and taking up customer space.
Michael glanced out the front window. Sandy, with her long, straight hair, stood with one hand in her pocket. The other cupped a cigarette to her lips. She noticed Michael and waved. He waved back.
“Can I get more coffee?” a man at the counter asked.
Michael filled it, and many other cups, as well. Eventually, the place became less and less crowded. Soon enough, only small groups of people remained. At midnight, Fatso came in. He looked happy, wearing a big smile. He sat at the same stool he sat at the night before. He set his paper down on the counter. “How are you, kid? Sorry I’m late.”
Without being asked, Michael poured a cup of coffee for Fatso. In a stern, yet playful voice, Michael said: “We’re still going to have to dock your pay.”
Fatso laughed. “Dock my pay. You’re funny, kid.”
“Fatso, you’re free to come and go as you please. I’ll do my best to save a stool for you,” Michael said. He lit a cigarette, then put a hot dog for himself on the grill.
“Yeah, well I passed by earlier and didn’t see a place to sit,” he said, explaining why he was “late”.
“When I walked in, the place was hopping. You know, for your benefit, you might want to consider calling ahead for a reservation.” Michael put a slit down the center of his dog, and toasted his bun roll. “Quieter now.”
“Cold nights. People don’t want to be home, they come here.”
Michael thought of what Felicia said. She wanted him to ask Fatso why he spent so much time here at night. “So what do you do during the day?”
“Sleep,” Fatso said, adding sugar and cream to his coffee.
Michael waited.
“I sleep most of the day,” Fatso said with a shrug. “I do whatever running around needs doing, don’t get me wrong. Like I go to the bank and doctor visits. Since I’ve retired, and since I don’t have any family, there isn’t anything to do really. I like it here. I like the people and the excitement here. Once in a while I show up for breakfast or lunch—especially on days where I know I’ll be driving all over the city. But the nights here are so much more interesting than they are during the day. Murphy’s got his day clientele, who I find boring, but his night customers—well, they’re another story all together. I could stay home and watch television at night, but what’s the point? This is real here, kid. I love it,” Fatso said.
Michael wasn’t sure he’d agree with Felicia about Fatso’s ‘story’. Fatso have an interesting explanation, but it left Michael feeling sorry for the man. His life had been reduced to something just short of pathetic.
“Feel like making me up a burger and fries?”
Michael stubbed out his cigarette and slapped a hamburger patty onto the grill. “Coming right up.”
While eating his hot dog, Michael was aware of the fact that Felicia had not shown up. He had to admit he was looking forward to seeing her again. Yes, he wanted to hear about the road to prostitution, but he also wanted to hear about her.
He found it odd and a little disturbing to think he might have feelings for a woman like Felicia. He tried not to think of her as a whore. He did not even care for the term prostitute.
When the door to Jack’s opened, he looked up expectantly. Sandy entered, hugging herself. She shivered so hard that her teeth chattered loudly. “I am freezing so bad. I’m so cold,” she said. She sat at the counter near the door.
“Slide down here, away from the door,” Fatso said. “Heat from the grill will warm you up some.”
“Good idea,” she said, moving down a few stools.
The two teenagers stood up and put on their coats.
Marcus entered. He wore his, apparently traditional, long black winter coat over a black suit. While the two teens paid their bill, Marcus stood behind them.
As they left, Marcus placed an order.
“I’ll bring the pop over to you,” Michael said.
“Thank you,” Marcus said. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Not a problem.”
“Felicia been by?” Sandy asked.
“Not yet,” Michael said, then cringed. He knew he had responded too quickly, too anxiously.
Fatso laughed. He did not seem to miss anything. “Can’t follow advice, can you son?”
“You the one giving the advice?” Sandy asked. To Michael, she said, “Then you’re better off, Michael.”
“Let me ask you something,” Fatso said. “You been a prostitute how long?”
Sandy shrugged while lighting a cigarette. “Since I was sixteen.”
“How old are you now?”
“None of your business,” Sandy retorted. “Where are you going with this?”
“In the years you’ve spent as a working girl, how many serious relationships have you had?” Fatso crossed his arms over his chest. He seemed eager to hear Sandy’s reply. Michael knew immediately what point was being made. Still, he waited.
“Two. Maybe three.”
“Two. Maybe three, you say. These relationships . . . were you monogamous in them?” Fatso asked.
“I still worked,” Sandy said.
Michael cocked his head to one side. “Did these guys know what you did for a living.”
“It’s how I met each of them,” Sandy said, somewhat deflated. “And you know what, Fatso, you can go screw yourself.”
Fatso held up two hands, as if he were backing off. “All I’m trying to tell the kid is not to get involved emotionally.”
“With who? Felicia?” Sandy asked, looking at Michael. “I think they’d be cute together.”
“Murphy’s only paying him a few cents more than minimum wage,” Fatso pointed out. “How long could ‘cute’ last on that type of income? Twenty, thirty minutes a week—tops?”
“You’re a pig,” Sandy said. “Asshole.”
Michael went around the counter and set Marcus’ drink on the table with a straw. “There you are.”
“Thank you, Michael.”
Michael did not think it odd that Marcus knew his name, but wondered why th
e man used it when they hadn’t been formally introduced. “Food will be right up,” Michael said.
Chapter 10
When Felicia showed up at Jack’s Joint, she and Sandy sat at the front booth, side-by-side, staring out at the street through the window. Michael watched them, watched their faces in the reflection. They were talking quietly. At any given moment, Michael would have sworn that he might have been the topic of their discussion. He could almost slap Fatso for embarrassing him.
“You know, Fatso,” Michael said, scraping down the grill, “I never once expressed an interest in Felicia.”
“Sure you did,” Fatso said casually.
“I did not. In fact, I resent you bringing that up to Sandy.”
“Resent it? Why? All I did was ask her some questions, you know?”
“You did more than that. You almost flat out told her I wanted a date with Felicia.”
“And don’t you?”
“I don’t. No,” Michael said. He stopped scraping, and put his hands on his hips.
“Not very convincing, kid. Not at all.”
“Well, for your information, I don’t need to convince you of anything.” Michael lit a cigarette and poured himself a soda and drank some from a straw.
“They’re people, just like you and me, but different,” Fatso said. “They are less fortunate, if you think about it.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Michael asked. He wanted to sit down. It had already proved to be a long night, and it was not even one in the morning yet. He knew if he sat, it would be hard to get back up again.
“Look, I don’t think these women are capable of being in a relationship—in the kind of relationship that you and I might consider genuine. Only way I see it happening is if some rich guy picks them up and never drops them off again. Like in that movie about that rich guy, the one with Julia Roberts,” Fatso said.
“Pretty Woman,” Michael said.
“That’s the one. See, but that was a fairytale. Things like that don’t happen everyday, I’ll bet my ass it never happens to whores. What guy in his right mind is going to want to get serious and settle down with some hooker?”
“So what was your point?”
“I feel bad for them,” Fatso said. He sounded more sincere than Michael could have thought possible. “Hey, I do. I razz them, you know, but I still feel bad for them. I know what my wife and I had, that was special. When she died, a large part of me went with her. A large part. I can’t imagine anyone else ever being able to fill that emptiness inside me. But I will tell you this, kid, from the bottom of my heart, that old saying ‘it’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all’? It’s true. It’s so true, and that—that is why I feel bad for these girls. They will never experience the kind of love and warmth and intimacy that I experienced with my wife.”
Michael stared at Fatso, thoughtfully. He would never have expected such sensitivity. Fatso’s perception was deep, touching and heartfelt. “Good point.”
Michael took the pot of coffee off the burner and filled customer coffee cups on his way over to where Felicia and Sandy were sitting. “Can I top off your cups?”
They nodded, smiling. The smiles looked curious and mischievous, but Michael ignored the feeling and just smiled back as he filled their cups. He wanted to say something to them—after what he and Fatso had been talking about, he could not help but feel sad for them, too. Instead, he turned and went back to the counter. As he walked, he heard the ladies giggling.
The door opened, and a gust of wind entered ahead of two large men in Halloween masks. One mask resembled the Grim Reaper. It was a black hood with a black mesh face guard. The mesh was thick enough that Michael could not see through in through it. The other person wore a rubber mask shaped like a baseball, with oversized google-eyes on the seams of the ball. Everyone in Jack’s Joint immediately recognized the situation for what it was: a robbery.
Michael saw the guns in their hands and felt his heartbeat increase rapidly. The tiny fist-sized organ slammed wildly behind his chest. Could it explode? The fulminating sound of it thudding and pounding into his ribcage rhythmically boomed like thunder in his ears. He felt as if his head might be swelling.
The gunmen pointed their guns at Michael. It was obvious what they wanted. “What do you want?” Michael asked.
“Empty the register,” Reaper said, tossing Michael a dark knapsack. “Fill it with everything in there.”
Michael could not see clearly. He blinked hard, hoping to wash away the blurry vision as his fingers stuttered over the keys on the cash register.
“Sit back down!” Baseball shouted at someone who attempted getting up. “Anybody moves, we’ll blow your head off!”
“Fill it,” Reaper said.
Michael felt captivated by the unfolding scene. He found the right key on the register and hit it. The thing chimed as the money drawer slid open. The allotted slots were full. It would have been a good night for Murphy. Reluctantly, Michael began to fill the bag.
“This should take seconds,” Reaper said, aggravated. He pushed the barrel of his gun into Michael’s chest, knocking him backwards. Then with his other hand he grabbed the money out of the slots and stuffed them into the knapsack himself.
Baseball addressed the crowd. “Put your wallets and purses onto the tables. Now!” No one moved. “I mean now!” Slowly, people put belongings on the tables. Everyone, Michael noticed, except for Marcus. He watched the scene unfold with arms crossed and an amused look on his face.
Great, the place has never been robbed and here it is only my second night on the job, Michael thought, as Reaper, the man with the knapsack, went to the tables and collected the items. At Felicia’s table, the man stopped. “Where are your purses?”
“We don’t carry them,” Sandy said. “So get lost.”
Obviously taken aback, Reaper appeared stunned. He flipped the gun around in his hand with a flick of his wrist. Holding the barrel of the gun, he moved to strike Sandy with the butt.
“Stop right there, and throw your gun down,” Marcus said. He had a gun drawn and aimed at the Reader. The gunman looked too startled to move. Michael wished he could see through the masks. He would have loved to see the expression on the man’s face.
“Screw you, mister,” Baseball said. He pointed his gun at Marcus. “Drop your gun or I’ll put a bullet in your head.”
Ignoring the man who made the threat, Marcus walked toward the front booth where the Reaper still stood poised as if ready to strike Sandy. “I said throw your gun down.”
Baseball walked around a table and stood behind Marcus. This did not seem fair. In one of the customer’s laps I saw a cell phone. The person had it on. Michael did not think cell phones could be traced. Hopefully they had dialed 9-1-1, and the police were listening.
Michael took a chance. “Look,” he said loud and clear, but not so loud as to be obvious that something might be up. “This is Jack’s Joint, you know? The place has never been robbed before. The both of you have all the money—”
“Shut the hell up!” Baseball said, turning and aiming his gun at me. “Shut up. Just shut up!”
Marcus moved like a bolt of lightening, spinning around and chopping the gun out of Baseball’s hand. He stepped on the man’s foot with the heel of his shoe. Marcus boxed Baseball’s head, slapping his palms against Baseball’s ears. Baseball covered his ears and began screaming. The sound came out muffled. Marcus turned back on Reaper, who seemed to be watching in disbelief as the robbery began to fail miserably.
Reaper tucked the gun away, slung the knapsack over his shoulder and backed up toward the door, as Michael heard sirens approaching.
Baseball seemed still to be in agony and wearing the mask had to be driving him crazy. He ran for the door, though, knocking his thigh into the corner of a table. The table shifted, and Baseball grunted. Reaper opened the door and ran out with Baseball close behind him.
Michael went around the counter and to
the front door in a hurry. Everyone else seemed frozen in place. One of the police cars did not slow as it came upon Jack’s Joint. Perhaps having seen two men run across the street and around the corner, the driver must have decided to follow them as possible suspects.
The other car switched off the siren, kept its lights flashing, and pulled alongside the curb. The police officer on the passenger side had the window down. “Was that them?”
“Yes, the two of them. They were wearing masks. One has a gun for sure,” Michael said, describing the masks. The driver of the police car talked into his radio.
“We’ll be back. Have everyone stay. No one leaves,” the police officer said. The squad car pulled away from the curb and turned back on the siren as it joined pursuit.
Chapter 11
“Where are you going? You can’t leave,” Michael said.
Marcus just smiled. Everyone in Jack’s Joint remained silent. “What the hell you mean, I can’t leave?”
“I mean, that police officer just told me not to let anyone leave.” It came out sounding like a challenge. Michael deeply regretted his choice of words. He watched the expression on Marcus’ face change. It went from a slightly annoyed look to a, ‘you better get the hell out of my way’ look.
Michael stepped aside. “Marcus . . .”
“How do you know my name, Michael? Huh? Just how in the hell do you know my name? I never told you my name, did I? You never asked me my name, did you?” Marcus poked at Michael’s chest with his finger. “You know my last name? Do you?”
“No. I—”
“So how do you know my first name?”
Michael could have asked him the same question. It would make him slike a smart-ass, though, and he was not about to say Fatso provided a synopsis on most everyone walking through Jack’s doors. “I heard someone call you that, maybe.”
Marcus laughed. “The hell you did. I’ve been sitting alone the two nights you been here. No one talked to me at all. I’ve ordered food, but other than that . . .”
Johnny Blade Page 4
