Chapter 12

Vermeer felt uncomfortable in his tuxedo. He hadn't worn it in five years. He didn't want to wear it again after this.

He was sitting with Mr. Blonde on his right, and Mr. Pink on his left. Mr. White and Mr. Orange were right across from him. In between Orange and Blonde was Mr. Brown, and in between White and Pink were Joe and Eddie.

The restaurant was nice, Vermeer reasoned to himself. The food had been good, and the waitress was a nice little girl who obliged to refill his cup. Pulling out his cigars, Vermeer lit one and began to smoke. Joe was looking at something clutched in his hands, while the others were involved in a conversation about whatever the fuck it was.

At this moment, he was listening to the other guys talking about Madonna. What the fuck? How did they get to this as a serious topic?

"Toby? Who the fuck is Toby?" Joe suddenly said.

Vermeer almost stared at Joe in shock. Did he just hear him right?

Vermeer glanced at the object in Joe's hand. Joe was handling a little black address book, looking at one of the pages. Vermeer remembered the book. It was the book that Joe had kept since the Second World War.

Vermeer felt angry: how the fucking hell did he not remember Toby? Sure, he had rarely seen her, but that girl had been the love of Vermeer's life!

Before Vermeer could think anything else, Mr. Brown was leading Blonde, Orange, and Pink in a conversation about Madonna. Vermeer knew that he couldn't say anything to Joe now: he had to hide his identity. He couldn't talk about it here. Despite the anger he suddenly felt towards Joe, he kept his best poker face, developed over so many years since Toby had lived with him.

To distract himself, he tried to follow the conversation. They were talking about "True Blue", the album. Incredibly, Mr. Orange hadn't heard of it.

"Personally I can do without her." Mr. Blonde commented.

Vermeer chimed in between his after-breakfast cigar, "I like her early stuff. You know,"Lucky Star," "Borderline" - but once she got into her "Papa Don't Preach" phase, I tuned out."

"But you guys are making me lose my track of thought, here! I was saying something what was it?" Mr. Brown frowned, trying to remember what he was saying. Vermeer cynically thought that if Brown had been talking about a movie, he'd never have forgotten.

"Oh, Toby's that little Chinese girl. What was her last name?" Joe mused to himself.

"What's that?" Mr. White asked. He looked pretty irritated.

"It's an old address book I found in a coat I haven't worn in a coon's age. What was that name?" Joe asked himself. The guy looked obsessed with remembering Toby, Vermeer thought to himself.

He wanted so fucking badly to yell at Joe, 'Toby's name was Cheng. She was Toby Cheng, and then she became Toby fucking Vermeer! And you forget that?' He couldn't believe how angry he was getting at Joe, this good friend of his, but the guy must be losing his fucking mind.

Mr. Brown was regaining control of the conversation. He began giving his own stupid view on the meaning of "Like a Virgin".

Let me tell ya what "Like a Virgin"'s about. It's about some cooze who's a regular fuck machine. I mean all the time, morning, day, night, afternoon, dick, dick,dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick!"

Vermeer frowned, "How many dicks is that?"

"A lot." Mr. White said laconically. He must have focused in on Mr. Brown's rant at the same time that Vermeer had, and for the same reason: Joe kept saying names out loud to himself trying to remember what Toby's last name had been. None of the names he mentioned was Cheng.

Mr. Brown went on, "Then one day she meets a John Holmes motherfucker, and it's like, whoa baby. This mother fucker's like Charles Bronson in "The Great Escape." He's diggin tunnels. Now she's gettin this serious dick action, she's feelin something she ain't felt since forever. Pain."

"Chew? Toby Chew?" Joe muttered. Vermeer restrained himself not to look at Joe in anger.

Nothing deterred Mr. Brown, "It hurts. It hurts her. It shouldn't hurt. Her pussy should be Bubble-Yum by now. But when this cat fucks her, it hurts. It hurts like the first time. The pain is reminding a fuck machine what is was like to be a virgin. Hence, "Like a Virgin."" He looked smug with himself as he finished. Vermeer wanted to slap this idiot around. "Like a Virgin" so obviously wasn't about that: this kid had it all wrong.

"Wong..." Joe said to himself.

Vermeer would have snapped then, but then suddenly Mr. White acted first. Grabbing the book out of Joe's hands, he cursed in his anger.

Joe got pissed quick, "What the fuck do you think you're doing? Give me my book back!"

Mr. White was undeterred, "I'm sick of fucking hearing it, Joe. I'll give it back to you when we leave."

Joe wasn't used to being disobeyed, "What do you mean when we leave? Give it back now!"

Vermeer snickered to himself. Joe sounded like a little baby, but nobody would ever say that to him; old and fat though he was, he was a tough bastard, and he also had Eddie sitting at the table with him.

Mr. White spoke again, "For the past fifteen minutes now, you've just been droning on with names. "Toby...Toby...Toby... Toby Wong...Toby Wong...Toby Chung...fuckin Charlie Chan." I got Madonna's big dick outta my left ear, and Toby the Jap I-don't- know-what, comin' outta my right."

Beside him, Mr. Orange began laughing at his friend's defiance.

Joe's voice dropped dangerously, "Give me that book."

Mr. White raised an eyebrow, "You gonna put it away?"

"I'm gonna do whatever the fuck I want with it!"

"Well then I'm afraid I'm gonna have to keep it." Mr. White tucked it away.

"Hey Joe,' Mr. Blonde spoke softly, 'You want me to shoot this guy?" Mr. Brown laughed, but only Vermeer noticed that Blonde's hand was straying towards the pocket where his gun was. Jesus, this guy played hell with joking and seriousness, Vermeer thought.

Mr. White didn't notice, "You shoot me in a dream you'd better wake up and apologize." He laughed at his own wit.

Eddie and Mr. Pink began chatting about K-BILLY's super sounds of the seventies weekend. Vermeer didn't listen to it, so he tuned out again.

Finally, Joe stood up, "Alright. I'll take care of the cheque. You guys can get the tip. Should be about a buck apiece." He turned on Mr. White, "And you! When I come back I want my book!"

Mr. White smiled, "Sorry, it's my book now!"

Joe turned to Mr. Blonde, "Hey I changed my mind. Shoot this piece of shit, will ya?"

Mr. Blonde smiled, mimed a shot with his hand, while Vermeer noticed his other hand actually close on his gun. This guy was a guy to be watched.

Eddie grinned, "Alright everyone cough up some green for the little lady."

Everyone but Mr. Pink threw in a dollar bill. He sat there, stroking that fake goatee on his chin. Vermeer would have guessed that he was making sure it was on there.

Eddie noticed him, "Come on, throw in a buck."

Mr. Pink didn't go for his wallet, "Uh-uh I don't tip."

Eddie looked again, "You don't tip?"

Mr. Pink was serious, "No I don't believe in it."

Eddie still thought he was joking, "You don't believe in tipping?"

Vermeer got pissed; this guy didn't believe in tipping and he worked as a waitor? What the fuck?

He broke in, "You know what these girls make? They make shit." He emphasized the 'shit', hoping that Mr. Pink would get the message that someone knew about his part-time job.

If Pink realized, he didn't show it, "Don't give me that, if she don't make enough money she can quit."

Mr. Blonde laughed, while Eddie was still getting around it, "I don't know a fucking Jew who would have the balls to say that! Let me get this straight, you don't ever tip?"

Mr. Pink looked at Eddie, "I don't tip because society says I have to. Alright, I mean, I'll tip if someone really deserves it. If they really put forth the effort, I'll give in a little extra. But tipping automatically, that's for the birds. I mean as far as I'm concerned, they're just doing their job." Eddie laughed in astonishment.

Vermeer found that unfair, "Hey this girl was nice."

"She was nice, she wasn't anything special."

"What's special? Taking you out back and sucking your dick?" Vermeer taunted.

While the others laughed, Eddie considered that, and added, "I'd go over twelve percent for that."

Mr. Pink retaliated, "Look I ordered coffee. We've been here a long fucking time and she's only refilled my cup three times. When I order coffee, I want it filled six times."

Mr. Blonde was goaded into talking, "Six times? What if she's too fucking busy?"

"The words too fuckng busy shouldn't be in a waitress's vocabulary."

Eddie put an arm around Pink's shoulders, "Excuse me, Mr. Pink, but the last fucking thing you need is another cup of coffee."

Mr. Pink shrugged it off, "For Christ's sake these ladies aren't starving to death. They make minimum wage! I used to work minimum wage, and when I did, I wasn't lucky enough to have a job that society deemed tip-worthy."

Vermeer knew that that was bull shit. Mr. Pink was trying to hide his identity by throwing a false trail. The clever asshole.

He spoke again, "You don't care that they're counting on your tips to live?"

Mr. Pink gave him a look- Vermeer was convinced afterwards that Pink knew that Vermeer knew about his cover- and smoothly put two fingers together, rubbing them, "You know what this is? It's the world's smallest violin playing just for the waitresses."

Vermeer snorted and zoned out. This punk was as sick as Blonde, but in different ways. He was surrounded by idiots.

He glanced at the others as Mr. White lectured Pink on waitressing, while Orange tried to be funny by claiming to have been convinced. Vermeer grunted, and was almost glad to see Joe again.

"Alright ramblers, let's get rambling!" He stooped to get the dollars, "Wait a minute! Who didn't throw in?"

Orange took the moment to pipe up again, "Mr. Pink." He sounded like a little school boy snitching his peers out. Fucking wimp.

Joe looked at Pink, "Mr. Pink? Why not?"

Orange talked again, "He don't tip."

Joe looked from Orange back to Pink, "He don't tip? What do you mean you don't tip?"

Orange spoke a third time, "He don't believe in it."

Joe had had enough, "Shut up!"

He turned on Pink, "What do you mean you don't believe in it? Come on you, cough up a buck you cheap bastard! I paid for your goddamn breakfast!"

Pink caved, as Vermeer knew he would, and they finally got out of the fucking restaurant. As they headed for their cars, Vermeer noticed that someone had put a boom box on their window sill and was blasting out "Little Green Bag" by the George whatever band. Vermeer found it funny that the song was playing just as they were walking down the street.

Vermeer was relieved as he puffed his cigar. Now they could get this shit over with. Damn, but that song was fitting.