Authors: Ernie Lindsey
“Damn,” I say. “That’s awesome. A
three-hundred dollar tip should make your night more bearable, huh? Any idea
who it was?” We have a few marks that come in occasionally that everybody
knows are big tippers, knows them by name even, and sometimes we’ll slip
Seashell or one of the other hosts a few bills to seat them in our section,
hoping for a big score.
“Some girl,” she says. “Sounded
young.”
That’s some serious cash,
six-hundred bucks total, but it doesn’t match the description of any of the
whales on our checklist. I pass it off as maybe a birthday party or bridal
shower. I’m curious though, so I ask, “Going out for delivery or coming in?”
“Coming in. Said she’d be here in
about an hour. A full match. Crazy,” she says, and then dances back onto the
floor to check on a table.
Like everything else happening around
me, it won’t matter tomorrow, but old habits and all that. I’d like to see who
the big spender is for the fun of it.
Diners begin packing the doorway in
droves around 6:30, and we’re already on a two-hour wait fifteen minutes
later. I’m not looking forward to the ridiculous rushing around and all the
apologizing that will inevitably come if the kitchen gets behind. Residents
that are higher up in the food chain can go Commandant Crankypants in a hurry
if they feel like they’re being inconvenienced. On the flipside, it’ll be a nice
distraction from worrying about breaking back into this damn place later
tonight.
It’s 6:45, about the time the big
tipper should be showing up for her bountiful order of Butter Tea Brownies,
which is now sitting in an extra-large To Go bag over by the hostess stand.
I keep my eye on the door, watching,
waiting. A hungry, hungry horde gathers around Seashell, lined up outside and
down the block, and it’s getting harder to make out who is who and harder to
pay attention to what my customers are ordering.
I feel a tug on my arm and the
gentleman of the R7 couple with two kids says, “Did you get that? We’re
splitting a small Butter Tea Brownie for dessert. Any chance we can get that
recipe?”
I glance down, half-tempted to tell
him to keep an eye on his email, that he’ll have his chance soon enough. Instead,
I respond with, “An excellent choice, sir. They’re the best thing on the
menu.”
When I turn away from the table, I
look over and see Seashell handing the colossal bag to an outstretched arm. I
can’t quite tell who it belongs to through the throng of patrons, so I stretch
myself higher to get a better visual. The only thing I can make out is the
back of a head with short, jet-black hair and purple highlights, bobbing
through the crowd.
I rush over to the nearest window,
hoping for confirmation, but there are so many people standing outside that I
see Residents from every rank and file
except
her. She’s gone
invisible, melding into the malleable crowd.
What in the hell? Why?
***
As if I didn’t have enough to worry
about. I knew she wouldn’t listen. But what is she up to?
The rest of my shift is spent
entirely distracted, wondering what Bingo was doing here, buying fifty
extra-large Butter Tea Brownies, not asking for
me
when she called, not
popping over to say hi when she came in. It’s conceivable that she didn’t want
Dorna to see her if the big boss lady happened to be out patrolling the
tables. Would that be enough to dissuade her? Why not have them delivered?
The
what for
is the biggest
question.
Why is nothing that anybody is doing
making any goddamn sense? What’s going on with everybody? First Forklift, now
Bingo.
Something else that’s super-peculiar
happens about an hour before we close up. Stream shows a rare moment of
connection with another member of humanity. He stops me behind the counter,
says my shirt collar is crooked, then reaches up and fixes it for me. It’s a
strangely endearing gesture from someone that’s snubbed me and rebuked me with
his eyes for a month.
Really, has the whole world gone
mad?
It’s an additional anomalous instant
in an evening that’s gotten crazier and crazier, and I forget about it minutes
later, already back to analyzing Bingo’s intentions.
Around 10:30, after we’ve shut the
doors and finished most of the Closer Cleanup, I catch Forklift out on the
dining room floor, resetting a table for breakfast tomorrow.
“Dude, did you see Bingo here
earlier, getting a To Go bag of BTBs?”
“Negative, Bricklayer,” he says,
staying focused on his task.
“Somebody called in a pick-up order
for fifty of them and gave Trinket a full match on the price tag.”
That catches his attention. He
uprights himself. “Really reals? A full match?”
“Really reals. That’s not the
point. I swear I saw Bingo come in to pick them up. Why would she do that?
What does she need fifty BTBs for?”
He reaches up, pulls the hairband
out that Dorna makes him wear, let’s his zebra-striped mop fall down. His
shoulders go up to his ears, then drop. “If you ran her marathon, maybe she’s
carb-loading for the next one.”
I resist the urge to punch him. Not
out of anger or for lack of respect, but because all I want is for something to
make sense, somebody to tell me the truth, somebody to give me something
logical to latch onto. “Forget it,” I say. “Maybe it wasn’t her.”
But I know that isn’t true.
Forklift can tell I’m frustrated, so
in plain-speak, he says, “I have no clue what she was doing, Brick. You know
better than I do that she’s got her own thing going on, marches to her own
drumbeat. Flies solo. Maybe she was jonesing or handing them out to some Off
Paper homeless guys. Could be anything.”
I don’t dare tell him he’s wrong.
Not now.
He inches closer, leans over.
Whispers, “Bigger battles, buddy. You can ask her tomorrow, during our victory
lap.”
“Fine. It’s not a big deal,” I lie,
and feel no guilt for doing it. If everybody else is, why can’t I? Steering
the conversation elsewhere, I ask, “How do we know that The Minotaur can come
through? You thought that one out?”
“You heard LX. The Minotaur will
expect to be expected. He’s greasy.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. We’re sugar. Trust.”
“All right, dude. Give me the
rundown again. What now? And, do it in normal tongue.”
“Finish up here, say your
nighty-nights to all these people you won’t ever see again, then walk down to
the bus stop. Get on, ride in circles for an hour, and that’ll give Dorna
enough time to count the bankroll and lock up. Get off at the stop near Howey
Street. I’ll be there waiting on you. Then we’ll go ninja back up into this
place, grab what we need to grab, and haul ass back over to Urine Town.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Gotta birth some preparations for
the perspirations, Brick House. Paddle canoes. Deep inhalations to your
airbags, maestro. Let me worry about the rest.”
***
That’s it. King’s pawn to e4.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m on the
night bus that makes fewer stops, going in counter-clockwise circles through
this slightly less upper-scale R10 locality, around and around, down into the
drain of my shitty situation. I don’t even worry about traces of genetic
residue contaminating the seat where I’m parked. I’m past that point. A
greasy forehead-print on a bus window is the least of my worries. If the BAs
haven’t come for us by now, to take us in as suspects for the atrocities in
LX’s apartment, then they aren’t going to. It’s baffling, but I have to let it
go.
Bigger battles, buddy.
Once more into the breach, dear
Forklift.
And then there’s Bingo.
What, what,
what
was she
doing? Stocking up for the trip in case we have to run?
I’m grasping at holograms. It’s useless.
I have to let it go. I have to let
it go. I have to let it go.
The culmination of our scheme is
upon us, and it’ll have to wait until tomorrow,
if
it comes.
The bus labors along, swaying
softly, and I wish that I had time for it to rock me to sleep. I make an
attempt at flipping my brain into the Off position, stare out at the same
neighborhoods I’ve seen innumerable times. It’s such familiar territory that
nothing is worth noticing. The same brownstones. The same cars. The same stop
signs. It’s like that stack of books and unpacked boxes sitting in the corner
of your living room that you’ve meant to do something about for months, but the
mess has been there for so long, it’s become part of the scenery and you don’t
even pay attention to it anymore.
We get closer to the Howey Street
stop and I check the digital time display above the driver, wondering if I’ll
need to make another loop. I want to, in a way, to delay the inevitable.
Fifty-three minutes have passed.
Time to get off.
Charon has delivered me across the river
Styx.
I stand, force myself through the
automated doors, and step out onto the other side of the shore, onto the
playing field, onto the chess board.
Chapter
17
Forklift is hanging out there, as
planned.
Greeting me, he says, “The Brick in
the wall!”
“Ready to go?”
“Let’s barbeque the buttocks here
for a tick-tock. Give Dorna a few more hourglass grains.”
We have to wave the bus driver off
since he must be waiting for Forklift to get on. The great metal monster
growls its engines and pulls away, leaving a heavy plume of pollution floating
behind it. With all the technological advances we have around us to supposedly
make our lives easier, they’ve yet to figure out how to make the engines run
cleaner that operate on the natural resources from Canadian oil sands. Some of
the brilliant, engineering Mensa minds at AU must be asleep at the proverbial
wheel, or the Oil Magnates have them in their pockets too.
I cough through the fumes, ask
Forklift where he’s parked
Machine
, wondering how far we’ll have to
sprint to the getaway car if it comes to that. I make a mental note to check
for Bingo’s second-chance spot, provided she’s adhering to the now-in-question
plans.
“Baby’s in the bassinet, couple
blocks down. Too sunup to be closer.”
He hasn’t changed out of his Wishful
Thinking uniform, and I haven’t either. It’s one particular detail we
discussed through some of the planning, figuring if someone happens to notice
us going into or out of the restaurant, it won’t be as obvious that we’re
Breaking & Entering & Exiting. We’ll look like regular employees
coming to and fro. There’s only one addition to his stealth-mode attire; a
black backpack slung over both shoulders. I ask him what’s inside.
“The tools to heist the jewels, and
a place to park the Top Secret Recipe Book,” he says, patting a strap. He
adds, “And don’t go geisha. The secret ingredient will be there, trust,”
repeating the same line from last night.
That impervious vernacular is simple
enough to understand, but it doesn’t mean it’s any less irritating that he’s
not thoughtful enough to make this easier. “That’s the last Forklift-ism.
Keep this simple for me,” I demand. “
No mas, comprende?
”
“
Yr wyf yn deall.
”
“Oh for the love of God. What?”
“
I understand
. In Welsh.
Sorry, couldn’t resist.”
“You speak Welsh, too?”
“
Trochu
. Czech for ‘a little
bit.’”
I feel like a cat chasing a fly. “You
speak Spanish, Welsh, and Czech? Anything else?”
“Gaelic, Tagalog, Arabic, and about
seven more.”
“Seriously?”
He taps the side of his head.
“Genius, remember? Linguistics professor dad?”
“And this is something you never
thought would be an interesting bit of conversation?” Another aspect of the
mellifluous mystery regarding All That Is Forklift.
“Never seemed important enough.”
“Forklift, what in the f—” I start
to say, but stop myself mid-curse. This guy, who is supposed to be my best
friend, who has been by my side nearly every day for the past two years, is a
walking, talking, locked-up diary of private information. I’m beginning to
trust him less and less by the hour and the word
maddening
doesn’t even
have the power to convey what I’m feeling.
It’s my ass in his hands.
Wait, that sounds weird.
What I mean is, I’m at the mercy of
this perplexity of a human being. Damn it, I don’t even
want
to Ascend
anymore. I consider telling him that I’m done, right there on the sidewalk,
underneath the bright-as-day streetlight. That I’m going to track down Bingo,
wherever she’s parked,
if
she’s parked, and blaze trails for what’s left
of Mexico.