Disclaimer: I do not own Collateral, or Vincent because he would take offence and bam bam bam…not in a good sense that would be the end of me. I do own Andrews though, so lay off, she's my baby and any other character that you have not heard of is mine. Thanks to SpadesJade for giving me the inspiration to write this. Well, let's get started.
"Wipe down, table ten! Lara?"
"I'm on it."
Life was normal. It wasn't good, or great. It wasn't terrible or miserable. Life was just scraping by on seven fifty an hour and that was okay by Lara Andrews. It wasn't bad at all working waitress shifts at Paint the Town, a small Jazz joint. The music was nice, the food was edible, maybe even very good at times, and the most interesting people walked through that door to catch some easy listening.
Lara liked to watch them. The hip cats and their arm candies, the married couples, first dates, and loners that came to dig the groove and liquor that they had to offer. By the time most of them had paid their check she had invented their whole lives from the moment of their conceptions to gambling at their eventual cause of deaths.
No one noticed she did this though, partly because she made sure never to voice her thoughts aloud and partly because no one noticed her anyway. She was used to it; she had never been very good at being visible. For some reason she always ended up fading into the woodwork, and people just ended up glancing over her. It didn't exactly help matters that she was as inconspicuous as you could get. Brown eyes, straight long brown hair that was currently tied together in a simple braid. Glasses…and somewhat of a poco gordo figure. She wasn't overweight, per se, but she wasn't underweight either. She just was the way she was. A quiet person who preferred books and music to social interaction.
Most of her co-workers were blonds so there was no real threat of social interaction. But that was Andrews in a can, properly labeled and shelved. That was the way she liked it. Her life was predictable and safe even for a freshman in college living in the Big Apple.
And it's strange that it took only a runaway cab, a misconception, and regular customer to change her way of thinking.
It had been a Friday. She remembered because the house had been packed. Friday's were always Chicago night and they always drew a large crowd; mostly men who were willingly seduced when the Cell Block Tango was performed. If only people showed up like this for the real Jazz sessions, Lara thought ruefully, shaking her head as she headed back to the bar to fill up a lawyer's fifth glass of the night.
The other waitresses were clustered in a corner sharing daily gossip most likely. She was surprised they still got paid after all the time they wasted.
"Oh motherfucking god!"
That was Sheryl, the leader of the below average IQ pack, and she was shrieking high enough to call dogs, as she rushed over to the clump of her fellows. "I just seated one hot daddy at table six, the one near the stage. Holy sexy shit, girls…you should be so lucky…!"
"You know we are still being paid to do a job here." Lara reminded them as she set the glasses on a sturdy tray and made to do her job at serving table three.
She knew it was Myra's voice that hit her turned back by her accent, "Look at litt'l Miss Sandra fuckin' Dee, all holier than thou. Stupid chica thinks just 'cause she's all meek an' mild it'll help her get a man. Listen up, Punta, no man's gonna want a girl who follows the rules, he's gonna want a woman who can handle herself. So hide behind your shitty books and keep your nose out of this."
"Hey, I'm just here to help pay for my tuition. Guys are the last thing on my mind, and they should be the last on yours. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have customers who are parched." Usually Lara just let it go. It was no big thing. She had heard worse, endured worse from people in high school, but it was late and she was tired. She had snapped back and oddly enough she felt satisfaction in having the last word. She never had the last word.
Table three was very grateful for their drinks.
"Lara, get over here."
Lara printed out a receipt for table nine, slipped it in the little black folder, dropped it off, and thanked the young lovers for their business. Only after she had finished her duty did she come to the command of her boss.
"What's going on, Farley?"
"I need you to serve table six."
Lara stopped short, wiping her hands on a towel behind the bar, "But Myra's got that table. Fourteen's open." She pointed out.
"Sheryl's got fourteen. Myra can't stop flirting with the customer at six. I need you to take over. You're a smart girl. You won't lose your head over a pretty face."
Lara felt a little irritated at the insinuation that she wouldn't do such a thing so contrary to her nature as to disobey the rules. Everyone, even the strictest of the strict, liked to think there was a possibility for insanity. The feeling passed quickly and was swiftly replaced by a feeling of pride instead.
"Sir, I've already got five other tables…" She began.
"Please, Andrews, I don't want to have to beg, the back's giving me trouble again, but I will. This guy's big. He's important, can tell by the way he's dressed. Might be a reporter. Could put this place back on its feet full time. I need my best on this."
"Jeeze, alright." She laughed, throwing the towel down, "I can never say no to a man with a bad back, I'm a sucker for them."
"Thanks, Andrews. I owe you."
"Put it on my check…"
"Now let's not be greedy. We'll see." He patted her on the shoulder fondly, "Now go and tell Myra to get her ass out of there. She's got Dish Duty now."
Lara smirked as she went to tell the Sassy Senorita the good news. In all actuality, Dish Duty was the dreariest thing to do in the club. Every girl there lived in fear of getting assigned to it. Myra was going to raise hell, which was always interesting to watch if you knew where to stand so as to dodge flying coffee mugs.
Table six was probably one of their best seats. Close to the stage, somewhat shadowed, and close enough to traveling waitresses to make special requests.
Lara almost didn't even see that there were actual people occupying the comfy, snug, shady interior of the leather booth until she was all but standing over them, one of being who was Myra. That was strictly against protocol. Servers weren't supposed to sit and chat with the customers.
She cleared her throat softly before plunging in, "Myra, Farley wants you to do DD tonight."
Myra's tanned face melted from the shadows as she pushed it angrily into the sparse light of the secluded corner, "Well, you tell that fat bastard I ain't doin' it! I'm busy…do it yourself and screw off."
"DD?" Inquired a soft, sort of rough voice from the obscured darkness beside Myra. Lara was immediately reminded of the growl of a feral cat and the feel of grain like rocks between her fingers.
"Dish Duty." Myra explained, waving it off, "But I won't do it." She rounded on Lara, "And you can tell the old fart I said just that!"
Lara raised a brow, "Should I tell him you're hassling the customers, too?"
"It's no hassle." The voice intoned coolly from his shadowed direction, but Myra rode him over, fuming.
"You do and you'll meet with mi amigos y mi familia out back. La Punta el Diablo…" the Spanish lady snapped, "I'll pound your ass into the gravel if you utter so much as a syllable…"
A calming and restraining hand rose from the black of the booth to grasp the boiling chica's arm gently and she immediately stilled. When the voice spoke again it directed itself at Lara.
"Is there a problem with her being here?"
It was really starting to nervously tick Lara off that she couldn't see who was addressing her. She turned to where she assumed the man's face would most likely be and admitted frankly that such a thing was against the regulations of the waitressing staff. They had been told not to do it, plain and simple.
"And do you always do what you're told…" there was a pause and Lara knew the man was leaning a bit forward to make out her name tag, "…Lara Andrews?"
Even to her ears that sounded faintly malicious, mocking almost. The same tone of voice Myra and the others used to tease her…to insinuate her law and rule abiding life was trivial. Screw it if she was going to take that from a faceless stranger.
She drew herself up, annoyance with this guiseless taunter straightening her back, "Yes, in fact, I do." She answered in clipped tones.
"Good." The reply sounded pleased. There was a slithery sound of expensive cloth as the voice rummaged for something in his pockets. A wad of bills was presented, followed by a hand, an arm, and finally a face, alighted by the dim glow of the bandstand lights.
He was arresting…
Lara had never seen a man so remotely beautiful and cold. The man resembled frost from his sharp angular cheek bones, to his steel grey green eyes…and prematurely grey hair. He immediately set off an air of faint menace, almost as if he were a force to rival an electrical storm.
"Because," he continued, "I'm going to tell you to go to you boss and tell him I will gladly pay for this young lady's company, as well as for her meal."
Myra beamed, looking like the cream of the crop. A special order. It happened once and a while when a girl caught someone's eye. Attractive guy, Lara thought, bad taste.
With a hesitant hand Lara took the money from him, their fingers touching briefly at the transfer.
"O.K." She replied, slipping the fold of bills into her pocket.
"Okay?"
She nodded, "Can I get you anything else?"
"Water would be lovely."
She felt by his tone of voice he was still poking fun at her. It wasn't that the request was so odd; it was the way in which it was said. As if all this was for his immediate amusement. She decided to ignore it for now.
"And…anything for your lady friend?"
Myra answered for herself, "Martini, straight up. With a twist."
Lara scribbled down the separate orders and underlined them twice. She removed her glasses, slipping them into the collar of her shirt.
"Alright. Your orders will be brought around shortly." She clicked her pen three times and turned to go.
"Will you be our server for the rest of the night?" The man inquired softly, Lara turned to answer with a smooth retort when Myra beat her to it.
"Let's hope not." She snorted snidely brushing her ebony curls over her shoulder.
Lara smiled as she turned back and made her way to the kitchens. Took the words right from her mouth.
Farley accepted the money offered for Myra's dinner.
"Knew he was something. That's four fifties. Hell All Mighty. He's probably asking her all sorts of questions about the place. That's what these reporters do; ask questions about the state of the place…"
Lara left him to his frantic thoughts of success and handed the orders to the barkeep, a slightly funny, sweet guy her own age by the name of Gerry, and whispered, "Ice in his veins and a plain Marty with a Twist of Bullshit."
Gerry turned to her, "One ice water and a straight Martini with lime coming right up."
Lara ended up doing Myra's Dish Duty shift on top of her five other tables and the one that held the reporter or food critic…she didn't know what the hell he was. She traded off between the purging of gross remains from half finished plates and making sure the glasses never went dry at the tables.
She had one more load of dishes to take care of after her last table. Table six was still in use. Questionnaires didn't take people this long. Some interview. Lara blew some dangling stray hairs away from her eyes as she trudged back to the kitchens.
"Excuse me…" Hand at her wrist. Gentle but firm. She paused.
"…we're done."
The man pushed forward the black folder on the slick surface of the table. Lara swiped it up and flicked it open. Cash, of course.
"Thank you."
Lara met his eyes and nodded.
"Hey, Punta…"
Lara closed her eyes for a moment and then turned calmly to face Myra.
"…enjoy DD without me?"
For the second time that night Lara broke her vow of indifference.
"Always, Myra." She answered.
Myra's triumphant expression dropped instantly. This reply however had a drastic difference on the man. His eyes lit up, his accommodating smile expanded in a true grin bearing his teeth, and he let loose a soft echo of laughter.
"I hope you had a lovely time at Paint the Town," Lara repeated the manta of thanks by memory, "Please come again. Excuse me."
And dispensing with the pretence of following the ordered polite demeanor she walked back to the kitchen. The man's smothered chuckle followed her.
DD was terrible but it did have one redeeming factor. You were allowed to listen to whatever tunes you wanted, and break the sound barrier by doing so, if you so wished. At the moment Lara was blowing Fiona Apple up as loud as she was able, and attacking the grime and residue on the plates as she did so.
"I got my feet on the ground and I don't goooooooo ta sleep ta drea-ha-heeeeem…" She hummed as she squirted another hefty amount of disinfectant soap on one particular plate. "You got your head in the clouds and you're not at all what ya seem…This mind, this body, and this voice cannot be…"
Someone turned down the volume with a quick flick of the wrist.
"…stifled…" Lara finished half heartedly, to tell off one of the mindless sheeptresses and turned, suds in her hair and big yellow plastic gloves on her hands, to find the man who had paid for Myra, leaning up against the stainless steel counter.
Lara brushed back a strand of hair from her eyes, "Can I help you? Sir?"
He didn't seem to be paying her any mind. His attention, the focus of his person was one, strangely enough, the layout of the kitchen.
"Sir?" She inquired again, removing the gloves and laying them aside.
His eyes found her as if she hadn't been standing there the whole time. An obliging smile graced his face. "No, no…" the man shook his head gently, "I don't need anything. I just wanted to thank you again for your services tonight."
Lara reached behind her to untie her smock and tossed it aside, "Well, your tip…was more than enough of a thank you for me, sir." Tip. Hell, it had been a small fortune. Who carried that much money with them anyway?
"Maybe so…" the man nodded and took a step forward, "but I wanted to say it in any case."
It felt impolite to do anything less of saying a "You're welcome," in return so she did, but guardedly.
They stood like that for a while, just regarding each other across the expanse of the white tiled floor. The silence made her nervous.
"Where's Myra?"
Some conversation starter. Lara really didn't care how stupid or obvious the change of topic was, just so long as he wasn't staring at her. She didn't know why then, but something about him was off.
Still no matter how stupid or obvious the change as it had been, it seemed to throw the man for a loop. He glanced over his shoulder as if the mentioned waitress would make an entrance at a moment's notice, as if he had all but forgotten of her existence. He passed a hand behind his head and massaged his neck with it, then dropped it to his side.
"Her boyfriend called. Wanted to know where she'd been. She excused herself to the little girls' room…" He uttered a guttural laugh. "I suppose that's as good an excuse as any to get out of a date."
"Um hmm…" Lara murmured, closing the dishwasher and setting it on the heavy duty wash cycle.
They stood in silence a while more. Lara didn't like the way his eyes kept flicking to the setup of the room, it was eerie, as if he were imprinting each glance into his memory.
"You really shouldn't be back here, sir." Lara attempted finally.
His eyes snapped to her with uncanny speed, as if he were frustrated she had interrupted his inner thoughts. Who was this guy?
"I'm sorry." He replied, "Just wanted to tell you, you did bang up job tonight."
"Thank you."
He turned with a charming smile, "Well…good night."
"Goodnight."
The kitchen door swung shut behind him.
Shaking her head in confusion, Lara made sure all the appliances were off, shrugged on her coat, and patted Farley on the back as she said goodnight before he did a last sweep of the place before closing up.
Lara made for her old reliable black Honda in the lot behind the joint. Her working day was done.