1
There was a couple sitting at the back booth, bent close, whispering, their eyes constructing walls around them. Infatuation seeped out of their leather jackets and horn-rimmed glasses. They were talking about Ayn Rand and Nietzsche. The only other client in the diner crouched over his steaming coffee mug at the counter, shading his eyes with his hand, too drunk to go home yet.
The radio sitting next to the grill, choked with grease and dust, whined Billie Holiday. Milt wiped the grill and D'joris wiped the counter. There was a mountain of dirty dishes in the sink but no one to wash them. Milt and D'joris were avoiding the argument over who would clean them up.
The diner at Third and Sixteenth smelled like fried chicken, coffee, and Pine Sol. It was almost closing time. If Milt and D'joris didn't figure out who was going to be stuck doing the dishes, they would leave it to the cockroaches. Then José would be really pissed.
The bell at the front jingled. D'joris looked up at the hooded figure pushing the door open, irritated. It was eleven o'clock and Milt had already cleaned the grill. "We closed," she said, and hummed "Summertime." Milt glanced past her, looked down at the grill, and then looked at the door again, his shoulders straightening. D'joris turned back to the door, heart sinking. They hadn't been held up in three months. She didn't want to lose her tip money again.
The white man filled the door, broad-shouldered and tall, his dark blue hooded sweatshirt shading his pale eyes and face. The thousand-yard stare unnerved her. His left arm hung limp, but she could see his right hand, opening and closing. His nails were filthy.
"I wanted to ask," he said. His voice was husky and unsure. "If I could go through your dumpster."
Milt moved from the grill to where D'joris stood by the counter. He edged in front of her, and she was grateful for his bulk. "Sure, man," said Milt, his deep voice soothing. "You go right ahead. Ain't gonna stop you."
The man at the counter stiffened and raised his head. The couple in the booth fell silent, watching. The white man stared past Milt, past D'joris. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, then his teeth gripped them, briefly, and his gaze slid to Milt.
D'joris knew that appraising look. Weighing, measuring Milt's size, his threat, his protective stance. She cringed a little inside herself, looking at his pockets. She couldn't see the telltale weight of a gun, but these days you never knew.
The sound of the white man's shoes on the old linoleum scraped and shuffled. He ducked his head, hiding his eyes in the shadows of the hooded sweatshirt, and nodded.
"Thanks."
The door jangled as he backed out into the street. D'joris let out a breath, and the couple in the booth started to whisper again, low and frantic. One of them took out a phone.
"Should we call 911?"
The man at the counter squinted at Milt. "That was one creepy-ass fucker."
"You just hold on there."
Milt glared at the hipster couple, then turned to D'joris. "I'm'a check him out."
"Milt, don't you dare," said D'joris. "Leaving me in here."
"Be a sec," said Milt. "Be okay."
"Hell it will," said D'joris, but let Milt go.
The man at the counter and the hipster couple paid and left in an insulting hurry, leaving D'joris alone. She hedged her bets and locked the door behind them, turning the sign to read "CLOSED." She couldn't hear Milt in the back. He'd been gone five minutes. But no gunshot, no raised voices. She finished closing out the register and zipped up the cash bag, debating whether or not to put it in the safe. On the one hand, creepy hoodie guy would demand it quickly, and it would be better to just give it to him without fuss. On the other hand, José would be pissed if she didn't even try to save the diner's take for the day.
She heard the back door open and close, heard Milt's deep, soothing voice. She leaned closer to the edge of the grill, listening hard.
"Hot water, dish soap, there's the rack. Garbage can. Trash bags there. Then throw it in the dumpster."
"Okay."
"When you done, full meal and a Coke."
"Okay." A pause. "Thank you."
"No problem, man."
Milt loomed back into the front of the diner. D'joris was furious. "What are you doing?" she demanded in a hiss. "Lettin' that hobo in here?"
"He hungry," said Milt. "Ain't et in days. Disabled."
"What?"
"One arm." Milt patted his left bicep. "Just a, what do you call it."
"Prosthesis?"
"Yeah."
"Huh." D'joris glanced into the back. The creepy hoodie guy had filled the sink with hot, soapy water and was washing the dishes, his face blank. She could see the cheap metal and plastic hand open and close, the creaky gear wrist lift, turn, lower. The other hand had been scrubbed clean and was washing, rinsing, stacking, washing, rinsing, stacking, washing, rinsing, stacking. His hoodie was dirty and frayed and his pants were much too big. He obviously hadn't shaved in a while and long, greasy black hair hung lank over his pale, angular face. He looked up at her then, light blue eyes cold and expressionless as steel, a sharp contrast with the sensual red curve of his lip.
D'joris jerked back and glared at Milt.
"What you gon' tell José?" she demanded.
Milt shrugged. "Tell him he shoulda hired us a busboy to do them dishes."
D'joris huffed at him and glared. But Milt's wife had immunized him against this, and only stared back challengingly. She would not win this battle.
D'joris finished cleaning up front, sweeping the floor and wiping down the rest of the tables. She switched off the front lights and peered out the plate glass window through the bars, hoping a cop was coming by on his beat. Her back prickled with the knowledge that the creepy guy was in the kitchen.
Milt did not share her apprehension. He cleaned and prepped the grill, and then went to the back to check the fridge and freezer. She heard him speak to the creepy hoodie guy, and heard a terse response. She stayed by the glass, unsure. When Milt came back through, he looked a little grim.
"Gon' give him that leftover fried chicken, some bread, and them green beans. And maybe a piece of pie."
"Milt, don't you dare," snapped D'joris.
"Aw, come on," wheedled Milt, smiling. "He doin' a fine job. Almost done. Good quick work." He paused. "Think he done KP."
D'joris' heart softened a little. "Vet?"
"Think so. Act like it. Detached, you know."
D'joris did know. Her daddy hadn't been the same after 'Nam. "Coke machine's still on," she said. "I'll heat up the chicken and beans."
"Yeah," said Milt.
Five minutes later, a cop walked by on his beat, glanced in the plate glass windows of the diner, and D'joris just waved. He waved back and passed on. She put the chicken, bread, and beans on a paper plate, then took out some plastic flatware and a Styrofoam cup of Coke, placing it nervously on the counter. She glanced towards the back. She could hear Milt speaking, low and quiet. Then movement, and they came into the front. Milt was a big man and very powerful, but the creepy white guy, though several inches shorter, held himself whipcord-tight, braced and dangerous. His eyes were blank and hollow, and his mouth in a straight line. He met D'joris' gaze impassively, and looked at the plate of food, contemplative. D'joris pushed it forwards.
"Here you go, man," said Milt. "Eat up."
The white guy glanced at the windows, looked behind him at the opening to the back, and picked up the plate. He took it to the back of the diner, up against the wall, and stood and ate mechanically, switching his attention from the front door to the back. D'joris wondered how long she could hold her breath without fainting. Milt wiped down the counter again, keeping up a one-way conversation.
"So the Yankees, they got to get they act together, man, that last game with the Sox, man, I was 'shamed to be from New York, you know? We can do better than that."
No reply.
"Got the Greek festival startin' up nex' week, gon' have some baklava and that meat on skewers, you know? That good stuff, and we be open with drinks and fries. Music kinda crazy but it's all good, right?"
Silence while the white guy chewed and watched and chewed and watched, his pale eyes fixed on Milt now, though whether he was actually listening was anyone's guess.
"My ol' lady, she sing in the choir at church, Voices of Bethlehem, she got a good voice, man. They gon' sing at the Vinyard nex' week, bringin' in people for the revival. They real good, man, you need to go an' hear 'em."
The white man paused, then picked up the piece of chicken and started to strip the meat and skin off the bone with his teeth, greedily, hungrily, his eyes on Milt. He tore into the ligament and tendon, sucking and pulling and chewing, and D'joris wondered when he had last eaten. His eyes were hollow and empty, but his fingers trembled around the food as though he had spent a lifetime starving to death.
"She work at that baby store at the park, sell cribs an' things, but our kids, they all grown. Got one grandbaby and one on the way, daughter Laquanda gon' give us a li'l grandson. Can't wait to teach him to play ball, you know."
The white guy's eyes flicked away, and his mouth, coated with chicken grease, twitched as though something had poked him. His tongue, surprisingly wet and red, skimmed across his lips and he swallowed. The Adam's apple in the unshorn neck wobbled. D'joris saw the battered red shirt he wore beneath the hoodie was frayed and dirty. Bulky shoulders shifted, and the prosthetic arm reached for the Styrofoam cup of soda. The flimsy-looking hand picked it up and brought it to the man's mouth, and he drank deeply, finishing it in one long draught. He put it down, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, then looked at Milt expectantly.
"Gon' get cold this week, weatherman says. Got a cold front movin' through. October pushin' in, lotta folk goin' up to Connecticut and New Hampshire to see the leaves. You ever see the leaves up there? Awful pretty. Took my ol' lady up there last year, it was real nice."
The paper plate was empty except for the bones. D'joris held her breath. Now was the point the man needed to go. He had to; they had to leave, she couldn't walk to the station knowing this man was lurking out there, watching her with that demoralizing pale stare. He either left or he robbed them.
He stepped forward, one, two steps. Milt took a deep breath. This was it, then. He was going to rob them.
Those curved red lips frowned, and the tongue flicked out briefly. His one hand opened and shut, opened and shut. He looked from Milt to D'joris and back again. Milt moved, slowly, deliberately between her and the white man. He watched, his face expressionless. The fluorescent lights hummed and the radio dissolved into static. D'joris could hear Milt breathe, fast and shallow, belying his casual pose.
The white man stared at them, perfectly still.
"You want more chicken, man? More beans?"
Milt's voice was careful now, waiting for the jump, the gun, the knife, the spew of irrational and violent tirade. D'joris' hand stole of its own accord to his elbow. He felt solid and strong, but he was trembling. She tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry. She hoped the cop would pass by again and see them, knock on the plate glass, ask if they were okay.
The lights hummed. The grill ticked quietly as it cooled. A cab passed, honking.
"Thank you."
D'joris took a deep breath.
"I was … hungry."
The man looked away from them, eyebrows puckered as though he were trying very hard to think of something, something important that continually evaded him. Still his right hand opened and shut, opened and shut. His mouth worked, and he blinked down at the table, confused.
"You want seconds?"
D'joris couldn't believe she had offered, couldn't believe that, even in her fear, her compassion would get the best of her.
He looked up at her through the greasy wreck of his hair. "I. No. But." He looked away again. "Thank you," he said, and he sounded unsure. "But."
"Hey," said Milt. "We ain't got no busboy, no one to do our dishes or nothin'. You want breakfast, we got work for you."
All D'joris could think was, José is gonna kill him. But she looked at the ill-fitting pants, the dirty sweatshirt, the sunken eyes and cheeks, and wondered, Iraq? Afghanistan? Saudi Arabia? Those pale eyes tilted to the side, found an empty corner, contemplated it blankly, as though he were not there at all. His eyebrows drew together, and he frowned.
"Hey," said Milt, and the man's eyes lifted, met Milt's, confused and lost. "There's a sleeping bag in the storage room. We gon' to lock up. You here in the morning, I make you breakfast and you do the bussing and dishes, yeah? That good?"
"I," the man said. He struggled wordlessly, his eyes on Milt. There was something important he needed to tell them, D'joris thought; something that would convince them to push him out the door, to run from him, to stay as far away as they could. But then he fetched a breath, looked away, looked so broken and unhappy and alone that she didn't care what José thought. At that moment, standing slouched and unsure beneath the shuddering fluorescent diner light, she was positive he didn't have a soul in the world who cared about him.
"You sleep well," she said firmly. She still didn't step past Milt, didn't think she could trust him that much. "You clean yourself up and we see you in the morning, hear? We'll fix you bacon and eggs and fried potatoes and pancakes."
He stared at her, eyes empty and confused, and bit his lip. Then what she said seemed to have sunk in, because he looked away again and said hesitantly, "I – like bacon." He frowned. "Don't I?" he asked, turning his gaze back to her.
"Everybody likes bacon," said Milt with a smile. "We'll lock up behind you. See you in the morning."
He didn't say anything, stared at them, the echoes of fear and desperation shivering behind his bewildered expression. Milt helped D'joris into her coat and they collected the cash purse to bring to the bank drop-off. D'joris turned off the radio. It was only playing static, anyway.
"Good night," said Milt with forced friendliness, pushing D'joris out the back. The man still stood at the table, watching them, contemplating them, puzzled and alone.
"Wait," he said, when Milt's hand hovered over the light switch. He held out the prosthetic hand. It quivered, shiny and awkward, thrust out from the frayed and dirty sleeve.
Milt paused, then left the switch be. "Okay," he said equably. "We'll leave the light on." He hesitated. D'joris wanted to go go go, to leave this deadly ghost alone in the diner, but something was holding Milt back. The man's open-mouthed stare encompassed them both, and his lips worked soundlessly, trying to force the words out.
"Milt," said Milt. "D'joris." He gestured with his chin and she forced a smile.
He stared and stared, then looked away and brushed the hair out of his face.
"James," he whispered.
"James," repeated Milt. "Okay, James. See you tomorrow."
Milt pushed D'joris out the back and bolted the door. They were both breathing fast as they walked up to the bank past Irving, their breath coming in quick puffs of condensation under the street lights. Cabs barreled by, honking, and the gang of youths laughing on the corner took one look at Milt's bulk and let them pass. D'joris clutched his elbow, trying to catch her breath, but Milt marched them along on his long legs faster than her five-foot-two could keep up. When they got to the station, Milt took the bag and nudged her. "Go home."
"Milt," said D'joris. "What are you doin'?"
"I'm takin' the bag to the drop-off," said Milt. "Ain't gonna make you do it."
"I mean, what are you doin' with that hobo?" D'joris demanded. "Lettin' him stay in the diner!"
"My ol' lady," said Milt with an abashed grin. "One of the songs the choir's been workin' on, she sing it every day. 'But maybe there is more than meets the eye," he sang, grinning a little shamefacedly.
"Who's that stranger there beside you?
Don't be smug and don't be cruel
Maybe we are entertaining angels unaware."
"Yeah, or devils," snorted D'joris. "You crazy."
"Maybe, yeah," admitted Milt. "But I couldn't look into them scared, confused eyes and make him sleep in the alley, not tonight. Gon' get down below freezin'."
"Well." D'joris shook her head and pulled out her metro card. "You tell José that, then, when that crazy man tear up the diner."
"He won't," said Milt with a grin, watching her descend the stairs to the turnstiles. She turned back to him incredulously.
"How you know?" she demanded.
Milt shrugged. "He won't," he said confidently. D'joris shook her head and watched him walk away, hoping he was right.