“I don’t recommend the chili,” came a gruff voice from across the diner.
Tom looked up from the menu and turned his head towards the man who spoke. A fat, balding man wearing a t-shirt that strained to hold him in sat alone at a booth and smiled at him. He had a greasy face and a mustache that dripped down below his lips.
“Yeah, why’s that?”
“They put beans in it. Not a damn respectful Southerner puts beans in their chili.”
“What in hell is wrong with beans?”
“If I have to explain it to you, then you’re a damned fool.”
Tom stared at the man. The man stared back and smacked his lips. He crammed a buttered roll into his mouth and drank from a large glass of iced tea. The man reminded him of a pig mucking around in a sty. He was a foul mess who wouldn’t usually be worth Tom’s time, but he had irked him, and that meant consequences. You can’t let a mealy-mouthed a-hole talk down to you and expect to go on living.
Before Tom could open his mouth, a lady came out from the kitchen like a gust of wind flopping the swing doors loudly against the wall. She had a dirty apron with a name tag that read Marcy, and a scowl on her face. “Josephus, you shut up right now or you can get out of my diner! I told you the last time that I won’t put up with you talking trash my cookin’.”
“We’ll somebody’s gotta say something. Your cooking is going to drive away the customers. Hell, you’ve only had the one guy over there come in all day.”
“Well, it ain’t because of my cookin’. They’re probably tired of being accosted by you every damn time they come in. Now why don’t you just go on home?”
“I’d like to see you make me! The customer is always right, you know.”
“Customer, that’s a good one.” Marcy scoffed and threw her hands up in disgust. “Don’t make me laugh, you sonuvabitch.”
Tom watched the two go at it like tennis players on a court. Keeping track of the score in his head.
“Why the hell do you keep coming back if you hate the food so much?” Marcy cried.
“For the service.” The fat man belly laughed as he slapped his hand down hard on the table, rattling his plate and silverware on the empty plates. Chunks of biscuit launched from his mouth like mortar rounds and landed on the table. Marcy threw a hand towel, hitting him on top of his bald head as he sat there laughing at his own sense of humor.
Tom guffawed loudly as he watched the scene unfold.
“You two must know each other. Ain’t no way you’d talk to anyone else like this if they weren’t family.” Tom scoffed.
The fat man lifted his ham hock of a finger and pointed at Marcy. “She’s my damned sister.” A huge smile ran across his mouth, splaying his mustache like a rake.
“I wish I were an only child sometimes.” Marcy said with a bit of calm as she pulled her order pad from her apron pocket and looked at Tom. “Now, what can I get you, sugar?”
“Well, I’d be a damned fool to not get the chili, and some of that peach cobbler, too.” He stared down the fat man as he ordered.
“You’re gonna regret it.”
“Josephus, I’m warning you, shut your damn pie hole or you can go sit in the car until I get done tonight and then I’ll take you home.”
“All right, all right, I was just funnin’. I’ll take some of that cobbler, too.”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” She motioned to the table where five empty plates of food sat drawing flies.
“Just get me the cobbler, you ain’t my mama.”
Marcy turned her attention back to Tom, who was sizing up the fat man at the table. “I’m sorry about that, sir. Do you have any siblings?”
“None.”
“Well, count your blessings then. I’ll bring your food right up.”
“Thank you.”
Tom turned back to the counter and straightened up the menu in the holder in front of him. He grabbed a toothpick from his shirt pocket and twisted it between his teeth as he waited for his meal.
“You know I was funnin’ right, mister? Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Tom swiveled in his chair. “I don’t know any such thing. Only thing I know is you’re an a-hole.”
The fat man bristled. “Now hold on a dad gum minute. I’m here being nice to you, and you treat me like this? Why, I ought to beat your ass.”
“You’re welcome to try. We can take this right outside if you can squeeze your fat ass out of that booth and walk out the door.”
“Keep thinking you’re a tough guy. If I get up, you’ll change how you’re talking to me. Everybody does.”
Tom wasn’t even angry. He’d dealt with people like this long enough that it was like putting on a pair of shoes. Easy and comfortable. He stood up and walked towards the man.
The fat man shook in his seat and tried to compose himself. “Now just hold on there, buddy.” A nervous rasp hung in the air and attached itself to every word.
“No, I don’t believe I will.” Tom reached in the back of his waistband and pulled out a snub-nosed .38. The fat man went hysterical, but the booth seat wedged him in. “Marcy, help me!” erupted a sound a full octave and a half higher than his normal baritone voice.
Tom methodically held up the pistol and aimed it at his knee and squeezed off a round with a loud pop. The man’s knee exploded, and he writhed in pain.
Marcy came out of the kitchen. “What in the hell was that noise?” She looked at Tom pointing the gun at her brother and then she looked at her brother, grimacing from the pain and trying to hold his knee that was leaking blood down to his sandaled foot. It took her a moment to realize what had happened. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing but silence came out as she frantically backed up towards the kitchen doors. Tom held up his hand and motioned her to calm down.
“Marcy, get the gun and shoot him.” The fat man hollered.
Tom stared at Marcy with his cold eyes. “No, Marcy, that wouldn’t be a good idea.” Tom said.
Marcy stood there shaking violently as she cut her eyes over and looked at where they kept a sawed-off shotgun behind the counter. “Don’t even think about it, sweetheart. If you notice, the only person here that isn’t panicking is me. Do you think maybe that might mean something?” She nodded her head. “Now, I want you to get that order ready to go. Nod your head if you understand.” She stood there looking at Tom, nodding her head slowly.
“You can go ahead and do that now, Marcy.”
“Marcy, don’t do it. Kill that sumbitch.” The fat man groaned. Tom pointed the gun at the man and then shot his other knee under the table. The fat man screamed again. His face turned to a deep shade of burgundy as he sat there bleeding.
Marcy tried to scream again, but this time, a strange sound emanated from her throat. She covered her ears from the loud pop of the pistol. The ladle of chili in her hand and spilled on her shirt and apron as it dripped on the floor around her.
“Calm down, Marcy. Just finish the order. You’ll be fine.”
Marcy nodded her head up and down as chili slid down her cheek onto her shirt. She put a lid on the bowl of chili and slid it in a paper bag and rolled it up to hand it to the man.
“Don’t forget the cobbler.”
As if on autopilot, she unrolled the bag and put some cobbler in a bowl and re-closed the bag. She set the bag on the counter, her hand trembling.
“Now then, what do I owe you?”
Marcy looked at the man, confused, as tears welled up in her eyes. She blinked hard three times. “Just take it. Please and leave.”
“Nonsense.” Tom pulled out a twenty from his front pocket and laid it on the counter. “You can keep the change.”
Tom grabbed the bag and walked out the front door. He never looked back at Marcy and Josephus. He knew Marcy wouldn’t be grabbing that shotgun, and even if she had, there was no way she could get a shot off in any meaningful way. More likely to shoot out a window than hit him. He put the gun back in his waistband. He unrolled the bag and noticed no napkins or a spoon, so he went back in.
The door chime sounded as he walked back in. The fat man was screaming at Marcy, who stood there like a stone.
“Could you get me a spoon and some napkins, Marcy?”
Marcy stood there, her teeth chattering.
“Nevermind Marcy, I’ll get them.” Tom walked over and grabbed a pre-rolled set of silverware in a napkin. He grabbed a few extra napkins from a dispenser before walking back to the door.
Tom stopped once more and pulled his gun from his waistband, and shot the fat man dead.
“You’re welcome Marcy. Have a good life. You’re free now.”
Tears rolled down her face as she stood there, a yellow puddle of urine built by her feet. Only her eyes cut over to Tom, who stood there and winked at her.
Tom left. He walked to his car and got in and took the bowl of chili out of the bag, and removed the lid. He unfurled the pre-wrapped silverware, allowing the utensils to fall in his lap, and picked up a spoon, scooping up a heaping mound of chili. Tom blew it and then placed it in his mouth. He chewed it and savored the flavor for a moment and stopped chewing. ‘Sonuvabitch. The fat man was right. Chili shouldn’t have beans.’ Tom rolled down the window and spat the rest of the chili out onto the ground of the parking lot. He dropped the bowl outside, splashing its contents as it hit the asphalt. Tom started his car and slowly drove to the end of the parking lot and turned left onto the small two-lane road, disappearing around the first bend on the way to Montfort.
The End