The sound of George Jones' “What's bad for you is good for me.” echoed throughout the small, rag-time diner, setting the tone for another quiet Sunday afternoon. Aside from Todd, the only other customer in the place was a regular by the name of Earl, a reserved fellow who usually kept to himself, sipping coffee and making the occasional comment in response to something on the TV. He was a friendly enough Joe that the waitresses tolerated his relative cheapness and obvious lack of respect for the serving industry, waving his hand and snapping his fingers in vain attempts to get attention. His forte wasn't small-talk or any sort of conversation at all, but any roadside diner would take whatever they could get in the form of repeat customers, even if it's just a customer taking advantage of the free re-fill policy.
Todd had been in diners just like Leeroys thousands of times, and like the thousands of other times, nothing particularly intriguing stood out about this one, separating itself from the rest of the pack. The menus all looked as if they'd been designed by the same person who seemed to have a monopoly on the standard menu blueprint. The selections rivaled that of a chicken and waffle stand fresh out of waffles, compensating by offering up kitschy names like the “Franki Valli-nila Shake” or the “Vietnam-n-eggs”, as if there was something appealing about feeling stupid when ordering a goddam meal.
The jukebox, still showing off its extensive collection of old '45s, hadn't been updated since the Reagan administration, and, because it was busted, was no longer able to make the traditional exchange of song for coin. Instead, it just randomly punched in numbers and played the resulting match. The black and white photos on the wall exhibited a number of American icons from yesteryear, a great many signed and personalized, which the diner proudly displayed to provide proof to any straggler who sets foot in the joint that it used to be relevant, or at least worthy enough of being a desirable pit stop. Yup, Leeroys was a diner, in fact, Leeroys seemed to fit more perfectly into the stereotype of the great American diner than most.
But, Todd wasn't there for a slice of Americana, and he certainly wasn't there for a slice of Marilyn Mon-rocky-road cheese cake. As he cocked his head and veered ever so slightly towards the cooler sitting discreetly next to him in the booth, he snapped back into reality and, taking a modest sip of his coffee reminded himself that he was there on business, not pleasure.
“Would you like to order an appetizer while waiting for your friend? Perhaps our world famous Truman Bloomin' Onion?”
Todd, lethargically shifted in the general direction of the voice, where stood an older lady, no younger than 40, exhibiting far too much exuberance for a mid-life crisis waiting right around the corner. “What makes it so world famous?”
“Well...” Della immediately chimed in as if half-expecting him to ask. “The story goes that on one fine day back in '44 none other than our 33rd President, Mr. Harry Truman himself , well back then he was just Vice-President Truman, stopped by our little establishment and got himself what was then just called the Golden Onion. Well, he became so smitten with it, when he did eventually become the big chief, he made this little hole in the wall a constant stop whenever he came through our fine state. He once even had the secret service wake up the cook in the middle of the night because he had a hankerin'. Darn near scared the wits outta ol' Chester when they came a knockin' at his door, but, God rest his soul, that man would do anything to serve his country proud.”
“Is that so,” Todd replied with a lack of enthusiasm rivaled only by the dead.
“Ain't that a trip?” Della, not sensing Todd's lack of shared passion for the subject, smiled, twirled and pointed to a framed glossy of Mr. Truman sitting proudly at his desk while in office, signing what one could only assume to be important documents, probably supporting the humiliation of one of America's foes. “We were hoping he would show up one more time so we could get a little ink recognition on that ol' 8X10, but, I guess being the commander in chief means you don't got time for the little things anymore.”
Todd, losing what little patience he had, swirled his half-empty coffee cup around its saucer., tapped a button on his cell phone and sighed. “Yeah, he's a busy man. Can I get a little more coffee?”
“Sure thing, sugar. You want anything else, food or stories, just holler in my direction. I'll be right back.” Della smiled again, gave a slight wink and sashayed her way back to the counter. The sounds of George Jones and Della's clicking heels seemed to blend into each others' rhythm, only to be broken up by the tinkle of the bell above the diner's entrance followed by the sound of the door banging against its frame as it closed. Todd couldn't see who had meandered in, but judging by the reactions of both Della and even Earl, who only seems to divert his attention away from the telly in very particular circumstances, he knew who it was.
New footsteps now started making their way towards Todd. “Was beginning to wonder if you were going to show or not.”
“I made the call. Wouldn't make any sense if I didn't.”
“Sit down.”
After a brief pause, Tin took a seat in the booth adjacent to Todd. While the two had never met face to face, Tin was almost exactly how Todd had pictured him; to say he had a menacing presence was like saying King Kong was slightly larger than your normal silver back. Black adorned all of Tin's 6'6 frame, complete with a raven-esque black stubble hidding a still very noticeable scar stretching from above his right pupil down his throat and into the trenches of what other battle scars hid behind his clothes. An ironic presence considering his forte was supposedly staying inconspicuous.
Tin watched Della eye him suspiciously before she adjourned to the kitchen. He then diverted his attention over to Earl, who was trying his hardest not to stare at the two men, but if his goal was to not be noticeable, he was failing miserably. If this joint was as hoppin' as Della claimed it once used to be, clearly it had taken a tumble somewhere along the line where just about any customer is a cause for celebration, let alone two customers. Tin looked around to see if there was anyone else in the place. Satisfied, he crossed his hands on the table and learned in. “And?”
“And what?'
“And, how did you do?”
“Fuck off. Not here.” Todd surveyed around, one to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, and two because Della never warmed up his coffee. He leaned in to where his face was mere inches from Tin's. “Keep your voice down. And would it kill you to maybe try not to be such a focal point?”
“The fuck you...” Tin altered his tone to just above a whisper, “the fuck you talking about? There's no one here! We're in the middle of fucking nowhere. Rainman over there don't know either one of us and the waitress don't give a shit what we do in here as long as we pay the goddam bill and tip her nicely.” Tin then raised his hand and bellowed out. “Excuse me, Miss?”
Todd looked on incredulously as Della flew through the swinging door, a little cautiously, but still with that trademark smile of hers. She slowly made her way over to where she assumed the voice originated from.
“Yes?”
“Any way I can trouble you for a glass of water and a menu? I've heard a lot about this little place you got here and can't wait to try out one of those Henry Kissinburgers y'all are famous for.” He tilted his head towards Todd and mumbled almost inaudibly, “Saw it on a billboard about a mile up the road.”
Della giggled and slightly blushed, “Not a worry! And,” turning her attention to Todd, “I'll be right back with a fresh pot of coffee.” She stood idly for a second before enthusiastically marching back to the kitchen.
“See? She don't give two shits what we do in here as long as we treat her nice. So again, I'm gonna ask you, without using cuss words, How. Did. You. Do?
Todd looked on in absolute shock and dismay, but eventually caved to the rationale of what Tin was preaching. “I do what I do well.”
“So we're in business?”
“We,” Todd slightly rubbed the palm of his hand across the handle of the cooler, “are definitely in business.”
“That's what I like to hear.”
The kitchen door swung open and out came Della carry a tray with a menu, glass of water and plate of what looked like hotdogs. “If you think the Kissingburgers are good, wait'll you try our Benjamin Franklinfurters, on the house, not even on the menu yet. Just let me know what you think.”
Tin grabbed one of the glutinous dogs and took a healthy bite followed by an exaggerated look of ecstasy. “Oh wow, these are a-ma-zing. Now I have another reason to come back,” he leaned in to read her name tag, “Della.”
“Oh,” Della laughed, abandoned were the reservations she had mere minutes earlier. “You can call me Del.”
“Um,” Todd chimed in, “how's the coffee coming?”
Della, unwillingly taking her eyes off Tin, looked down at Todd's empty cup.” I'll go check on it right now.” She looked back towards Tin, smiled a little less forced this time around, and moseyed to the back.
Tin starred at the kitchen door until it stopped swinging and, without taking his eyes off the door asked, “And the numbers?”
“Numbers stay where they are.”
“Good. So... can I see it?”
“In here?”
“Cleaner than being outside.”
“I'd rather you waited til you were alone.”
Tin was clearly getting agitated by Todd's demeanor. “I'd rather not considering it's costing 25,000 dollars.”
“Understood,” Todd snuck another look around the still mostly-deserted restaurant and casually handed over the cooler to Tin, who hastily snatched it, set it down on the table and slid open the top.
“Is that what I want?”
“I guess you never excelled in biology.”
“Don't be a smart ass. Just tell me, is that a...”
“Yes, yes... just... can you just close it?”
Tin closed the lid, slid out from the booth and non-chalantly pulled out his ray-bans and put them on. He then pulls out a small, bulky manilla envelope. “It's all there. Care to count it or would you rather wait til you're alone.”
“Funny...” Todd snatched the envelope and placed it in his inside jacket pocket. “I take it you're not staying for the burgers.”
“Nah,” Tin adjusted his hat, “Can't eat that shit, man. Makes you need another one of these,” Tin states, holding up the cooler. “Anyways, see ya.”
And with that he was out the door, skidding away in his Cadillac like he was making up for lost time. As Todd watched him drive away, he heard the sound of a ceramic mug being filled with liquid. “Sorry your friend had to take off, real nice fella.”
“Yeah...” Todd responded as the sound of Johnny Cash's “Folson Prison Blues” drowned out the sound of approaching police sirens along with the beating of his own heart, thumping heavily.
