GREETINGS FROM HELL!
By Mary Vettel
Ryder stood drying an already dry glass with a clean white towel. He held it up toward what little light seeped through the green awning’d windows and squinted his deep-set hazel eyes at it. He rubbed a corner of the towel over a spot until it squeaked, then realized it was dust motes he was seeing, not lint. This is what the Federal Witness Protection Program had reduced him to. It had undoubtedly saved his life, but it will killing him.
“Ryder?” the porcine man in the grease-stained bib overalls called to the slim counterman as he dunked his third glazed donut into his second cup of coffee. He dabbed at his dirty face with the frayed bandana he had tucked in his collar. He sucked the sticky glaze from his squat thumb and laughed, revealing a gap between his top front teeth.
Ryder set the glass down carefully and reached for the Pyrex coffeepot; always economical in his movements. Stints in various prisons on both sides of the Atlantic had taught him to be cautious in his actions.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” He asked in his working class British accent while holding back the coffeepot.
“I’ll let you know when I had enough,” Pollack huffed and lifted the see-through lid on the donut display, pausing to discern the right selection.
“That’s your appetizer?” Ryder asked as his nicotine-stained fingers lightly touched the cigarette that rested behind his right ear. He ran his tongue around his dry teeth, finishing with a short sucking sound.
“Aw, c’mon. Yer jest funnin’ with me now, boy.” He broke the donut in two and dunked.
“Why would I be funnin’ with you? I don’t even like you,” Ryder replied and set the coffeepot gently back on the burner. “Pollack you are an anomaly to me. I don’t believe in all my years of worldwide travel I‘ve ever come upon a Jew with such deplorable cornpone in his words.”
The smile dissolved from the fat man’s face, replaced by a sticky scowl. “Limey punk,” he mumbled and stuffed his mouth full of coffee-sogged donut. “What d'ya want me to sound like? Oy vay this and oy vay that? I can’t hep where I was born and raised.”
“No. But you can help how you speak. I understand Berlitz puts out some recordings on How to Learn to Speak English. You should look into it,” Ryder said with a superior air.
The twinkle returned to his hazel eyes as he walked along the Formica counter toward the woman draped in the tight black pinstriped suit. She had blown into Ryder’s establishment in a flurry of expletives. Car trouble. Her dark sunglasses remained on her perfectly resculptured nose despite the muted interior lighting. She slammed a silver metal briefcase down on the counter, rattling the dishes further on. Flipping the lid open and yanking out her mobile phone caused a sheaf of papers to cascade to the bare wood floor. Ignoring the flurrying papers, she tossed aside her abundant chestnut hair and, with a move Ryder knew to be well-rehearsed, slipped off her large gold earring, then nestled the plastic phone gently against her naked ear. Growing impatient by the second ring, she repeated the hair toss, earring removal, and settled the phone against her other ear.
Ryder pursed his lips and looked appreciatively at the woman. He hung back, not wishing to intrude on her telephone conversation. He occupied himself with redrying the glass. His height allowed him to peer over the counter, catching a glimpse of her long, slim right leg swinging back and forth, hinged on her left knee. In the brief flash of leg, he could tell they were waxed, not shaven and covered in $12.00 pantyhose, not the $1.89 sort on the display in the rear of his store. Perhaps they weren’t pantyhose, he thought, and raised himself slowly on the balls of his feet. Stockings. Yes. Definitely stockings. A sly smile creased his lips as he imagined the black lacy garter belt they’d be attached to.
“Well, it’s about fucking time!” Felicia Bagby barked, startling the fat man into snortling in his coffee. “Save the excuses for Dexter and patch me through to Nash.” She cradled the phone on her shoulder so her fingers, tanned and fashionably manicured with long, acrylic nails, could disappear inside the silver briefcase.
Ryder heard the nails scuttling about and it made him think of the crabs down at Brewster’s Fish Market in London’s East End. A pang of homesickness jostled him. He knew it would be years before he’d be permitted to return to England. He remembered Pollack’s lunch order and slowly made his way back to the grill.
“Nash-you-imbecile,” she exhaled it as one word in a plume of Marlboro smoke.
Ryder spun around. “Madam,” he said softly, his index finger raised.
“Who gave you the fucking directions, Ray Charles?!” she demanded, her hinged leg swinging higher in frustration.
“That’s not politically correct,” Ryder said to Pollack.
Pollack shook his head in agreement. He dabbed at the coffee dribbling down his chins.
“Well, NO, I guess they weren’t any good, since I’m NOT at the client’s office in Orlando having him sign on the dotted line, but rather in a rundown, two-bit, hole in the wall diner slash drug store in – where the hell IS this?” she demanded of Ryder.
“Eustis.”
“Did you hear that?!” she barked into the phone. “My ass is parked on a rusty red vinyl stool in a place called Eustis for Christ’s sake!” She shifted her firm rear to make the stool squeak. “And to top it off, my car’s dead.”
“There’s no smoking in here, madam.”
Felicia Bagby shot him a look that would have sent her assistant scurrying for safety. She inhaled the Marlboro down to her pointed 3” black leather Prada heels. Nash offered profuse apologies whilst riffling through a sea of papers on his desk.
“Madam.” Ryder tossed the dishtowel over his shoulder. “You’ll have to extinguish that cigarette.”
“Nash-you-cretin, find the fucking directions before I fire your ass! And get the number to Triple A.”
“Madam?” Ryder called, the hose from the sink poised in his hand.
“Do you need a fucking anvil to fall on your head?” she snarled at Ryder. “I’m on the phone.” She did the hair toss and switched the phone to her other ear.
A spray of cold water struck her face and misted her custom-tailored suit. “Are you out of your fucking mind?! she screamed. She untangled her legs and staggered back from the squeaky red vinyl stool, mobile phone in one hand and a saturated cigarette in the other.
Ryder remained behind the counter with the hose in hand, his trigger-finger at the ready.
Pollack gaped. His protruding eyeballs shifting swiftly from the dripping woman to Ryder. The rolls of belly began to jiggle until Pollack erupted in a roar. “You really take your job seriously, boy.” He laughed and clapped a dirty bandana over his mouth as he hacked a fat man’s cough.
Felicia Bagby simultaneously withered Pollack’s mirth with a glance, jerked the phone shut, tossed it into the silver briefcase and let the mushy remnants of the cigarette fall from her fingers. Leaning across the counter, she snatched the dishtowel from Ryder’s shoulder. She removed her sunglasses and dried them. “You just lost yourself this minimum wage gig,” she said and smiled triumphantly. “This is a $2,500 Donna Karan,” she announced and flicked beads of water from the wool/silk blend shawl collar. “A famous designer,” she added, presuming Ryder would not know.
Ryder’s right hand glided absently across the surface of the cigarette that rested behind his right ear.
“Nobody, and I mean nobody pulls a stunt like that and gets away with it,” she promised as she gently patted her face dry.
A gentle smile spread over his lips.
“What’s your name?” she demanded.
Ryder pointed to the pocket of his crisp white shirt.
She squinted at the red embroidered lettering. “I want to speak to your boss.”
“I am the boss.” Ryder smiled.
This news did not faze her. Felicia Bagby was used to hearing bizarre things. “Well, then, the owner.”
“One in the same.” The fingertips of his right hand caressed the smooth surface of the cigarette nestled above his ear.
Her right eyebrow arched to the breaking point. She tapped the tip of her nose with an acrylic fingernail while she thought. “And this is how you treat a customer?” she demanded, gesturing to encompass her damp attire.
“Technically, madam, you are not a customer. You haven’t ordered anything.”
Her knuckles rested on her slim hips. “Am I to attribute this type of rationale to the result of radical inbreeding?” She stared at Ryder, then looked to Pollack for corroboration.
“Oh, we’re not related,” Ryder assured her.
Pollack sat with his mouth agape, donut crumbs on the fringe of his chewing tobacco-stained lips.
“Enjoying the show so far?” She glared at him.
“I ain’t never seed eyebrows that go’d up so high,” he said in awe and pointed a dirty finger at her head.
Without intending to impress him, Felicia Bagby’s right eyebrow inched higher. “I’m confident there are quite a good many things you ain’t never seed,” she said and dried off the red vinyl stood. “Oh, put that away,” she snapped at Ryder, waving in the direction of the hose. “You’ve made your little point.” She raked her nails through her chestnut hair and resat the stool. “Where’s the nearest Hertz or Avis?”
“Unfortunately, madam, our quiet little town is bereft of both.”
“There’s got to be a car rental company.”
“Afraid not, madam.” Ryder ignored her wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of despair and let the hose slurp back into its sink well. His tongue toured his teeth as he walked to the other end of the counter. “You’ve had enough.” He removed the donut display from the counter.
“Aw, Ryder….” Pollack pouted.
“Yes, I need a tow or something.” Felicia Bagby sighed into the phone. “Well, how the hell should I know? I’m not a mechanic!” She picked up the fallen papers, slapped them on the counter and sat.
Ryder titled forward and saw that right leg pumping skyward, hinged over that left knee.
“Listen-to-me-you-idiot!” she pointed an index finger in what would have been the face of the young woman on the other end of the line. “I am Felicia Bagby and I must get to a very important meeting in Orlando. It is critical that I – What was that snapping sound? Is that gum? Are you chewing gum while I’m speaking to you? Yeah?” she imitated the receptionist’s voice. “Have you any idea how unprofessional that sounds to have gum clacking and snapping – amplified mind you – in my ear?” Her hand disappeared into the yawning recesses of the silver briefcase and withdrew, holding a gold lighter and pack of Marlboros. “Put your supervisor on. I refuse to speak –“ she spun and faced Ryder. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she sighed and rolled her eyes heavenwards.
Ryder stood with the hose in his hand, aimed at her face. A half smile creased his lips. “It’s loaded.”
She strode to the glass front door and pushed it open with her firm behind. The brass miniature of the Liberty Bell tingled as she exited. She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“Buns o’ steel,” Pollack whispered to Ryder and chuckled.
“That isn’t all,” Ryder agreed.
“Of course I’m still here! Where the fuck do you think I’d be?” she shouted into the phone and blew an angry could of smoke at a bed of lantana. “Look, I’ve got my hands full of morons right here, I don’t need any shit from you. Where’s your goddamned supervisor? I can still hear you chewing! Remove it from your mouth at once!” Felicia Bagby gasped audibly.
Ryder glanced toward the door.
“She hung up on me! The little gum-snapping bitch hung up on me!”
Ryder grinned.
“I’m in hell,” she groaned and punched the redial button.
“Where’re you going?” Ryder asked as Pollack quickly removed the bandana from his collar and jammed it hastily in his side pocket. “You haven’t had your popcorn shrimp and clam strips.” He held out the sizzling wrought iron frying plan enticingly.
Pollack guppied as his brain raced. “I don’t wanna be here when she finds out Triple A don’t service this vicinity.” He slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter and waddled to the door. He gulped greedily as he neared Felicia Bagby and crossed himself.
“’Scuse me, Ma’am,” he whispered and squeezed his way through the screen door, making the bell carol rawkishly.
Ryder jerked the frying pan to keep the popcorn shrimp and clam strips from sticking. He glanced at the faded Coca-Cola clock over the grill and counted aloud, “Five, four, three, two, one.”
The screen door jingled demurely. “Afternoon, Ryder.” The young female voice sounded sultry and seductive.
“Afternoon, Verna,” Ryder replied and gave a two finger, sideways salute whilst jerking the frying pan some more.
Verna Montgomery stood firm at the entrance, her loose-leaf binder and stenography textbook clasped tightly against her flat abdomen, allowing her ample bosom to overflow the rim of the textbook. The tip of her tongue darted out to lick at the bubble gum flavored lip-gloss she wore. It matched the pink hair ribbon that held her ponytail in place. The hint of pink nail polish caught what little light filtered through the dust motes as she smoothed her gray flannel poodle skirt.
“What’ll it be today, Verna? Cherry float?”
“Why, Ryder, you remembered.” She sighed and with a little bounce, glided toward the counter in her saddle shoes, beaming at Ryder.
“Course I remembered. You have the same thing every day.” He returned the smile.
Verna blushed and lowered her chin, embarrassed to be caught fishing for a compliment. She set her books on the counter and gently fluffed the shoulders of her pink angora sweater. She slid onto a middle stool and folded her hands neatly on top of her books.
“You certainly look pretty today, Verna,” Ryder said in a lowered voice as he dropped a loaded scoop of vanilla ice cream into the silver cylinder. His deep-set hazel eyes settled on her young face.
Verna’s blush deepened and her lashes fluttered. “I couldn’t wait to show you my costume. I hope you’ll come and see me.” She slid a ticket from between the pages of her textbook. “I have something for you,” she sang and inched it toward him across the counter.
Ryder gave the cherry float an extra squirt of cherry sauce and slid two straws in between the ice cream and the glass. He set the float down in front of Verna and leaned his head down to read the ticket. His tongue searched his teeth while his right hand stroked the cigarette above his ear.
“I don’t fucking believe it!” Felicia Bagby wailed as she reentered the diner, the bell announcing her return.
“Language, Madam,” Ryder rebuked and cocked his head toward Verna.
The arch in Felicia Bagby’s right eyebrow reached new heights when she took in Verna Montgomery. “Good Christ! I am in the land time forgot!” She held one hand over her heart and gripped the edge of the counter with the other. “Tell me you’re doing Grease,” Felicia Bagby said and reached for a calming cigarette.
“Uh-huh.” Verna nodded, eager to discuss it. Her ponytail swished. “I’ve got the lead.”
“Well, of course, you do,” Felicia Bagby said sardonically as she plopped her firm behind on the first red vinyl stool. Her padded shoulders slumped. Staring off into space, she spoke to herself. “First I get lost, possibly blowing a $4.5 million deal because my idiot assistant gives me the wrong fucking directions. Then my car breaks down in this God-forsaken place. Then my $2,500 Donna Karan gets drenched by some nitwit with his name on his pocket.” She shot a vengeful look at Ryder while protectively touching the shawl collar. “And now I’m told that AAA doesn’t service this area. I don’t fucking believe it!”
Verna coughed and spluttered, her pinkened cheeks growing blotchy.
Ryder pursed his lips and cracked his neck. His trigger finger twitched as he walked toward the sink.
“No, Ryder, don’t!” Verna cried and jumped to her feet, her large breasts toppling the cherry float.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Madam,” Ryder said quietly.
“Gladly,” Felicia Bagby agreed. “As soon as I can get somebody to fix my car. You got a mechanic in this town?”
“Pollack’s. Three doors down.” Ryder hiked his thumb over his right shoulder.
“Pollack’s?”
“You know the fellow who was just in here?”
“That Weight Watcher’s Poster Boy Reject?” Felicia Bagby asked incredulously and held her arms out as though to encompass a rotund form.
“Bingo.” Ryder nodded and touched his index finger to the tip of his nose.
“Why not? It makes perfect sense,” she said with a sigh, accepting her fate. She nodded, then shook her head. She walked to the glass door and paused, turning to face Ryder. Her mouth opened to speak but her words were stalled by the stern look he gave her. He cocked his head toward Verna, eyebrows knitted.
Felicia Bagby’s already erect body stood taller. “Sorry if my language offended you, precious,” she called to Verna who was busy cleaning the spilled cherry float.
“Apology accepted,” Verna said politely, dabbing at the stained ticket.
“Now don’t miss a fucking drop,” Felicia Bagby admonished and tossed her head back, laughing.
Verna’s cheeks flushed with mortification and her widened blue eyes sought Ryder’s.
“What do you expect?” Ryder asked as he walked toward Verna from behind the counter. “She’s from New York.”
Verna nodded and sniffed away the beginning of a tear.
By Mary Vettel
Ryder stood drying an already dry glass with a clean white towel. He held it up toward what little light seeped through the green awning’d windows and squinted his deep-set hazel eyes at it. He rubbed a corner of the towel over a spot until it squeaked, then realized it was dust motes he was seeing, not lint. This is what the Federal Witness Protection Program had reduced him to. It had undoubtedly saved his life, but it will killing him.
“Ryder?” the porcine man in the grease-stained bib overalls called to the slim counterman as he dunked his third glazed donut into his second cup of coffee. He dabbed at his dirty face with the frayed bandana he had tucked in his collar. He sucked the sticky glaze from his squat thumb and laughed, revealing a gap between his top front teeth.
Ryder set the glass down carefully and reached for the Pyrex coffeepot; always economical in his movements. Stints in various prisons on both sides of the Atlantic had taught him to be cautious in his actions.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” He asked in his working class British accent while holding back the coffeepot.
“I’ll let you know when I had enough,” Pollack huffed and lifted the see-through lid on the donut display, pausing to discern the right selection.
“That’s your appetizer?” Ryder asked as his nicotine-stained fingers lightly touched the cigarette that rested behind his right ear. He ran his tongue around his dry teeth, finishing with a short sucking sound.
“Aw, c’mon. Yer jest funnin’ with me now, boy.” He broke the donut in two and dunked.
“Why would I be funnin’ with you? I don’t even like you,” Ryder replied and set the coffeepot gently back on the burner. “Pollack you are an anomaly to me. I don’t believe in all my years of worldwide travel I‘ve ever come upon a Jew with such deplorable cornpone in his words.”
The smile dissolved from the fat man’s face, replaced by a sticky scowl. “Limey punk,” he mumbled and stuffed his mouth full of coffee-sogged donut. “What d'ya want me to sound like? Oy vay this and oy vay that? I can’t hep where I was born and raised.”
“No. But you can help how you speak. I understand Berlitz puts out some recordings on How to Learn to Speak English. You should look into it,” Ryder said with a superior air.
The twinkle returned to his hazel eyes as he walked along the Formica counter toward the woman draped in the tight black pinstriped suit. She had blown into Ryder’s establishment in a flurry of expletives. Car trouble. Her dark sunglasses remained on her perfectly resculptured nose despite the muted interior lighting. She slammed a silver metal briefcase down on the counter, rattling the dishes further on. Flipping the lid open and yanking out her mobile phone caused a sheaf of papers to cascade to the bare wood floor. Ignoring the flurrying papers, she tossed aside her abundant chestnut hair and, with a move Ryder knew to be well-rehearsed, slipped off her large gold earring, then nestled the plastic phone gently against her naked ear. Growing impatient by the second ring, she repeated the hair toss, earring removal, and settled the phone against her other ear.
Ryder pursed his lips and looked appreciatively at the woman. He hung back, not wishing to intrude on her telephone conversation. He occupied himself with redrying the glass. His height allowed him to peer over the counter, catching a glimpse of her long, slim right leg swinging back and forth, hinged on her left knee. In the brief flash of leg, he could tell they were waxed, not shaven and covered in $12.00 pantyhose, not the $1.89 sort on the display in the rear of his store. Perhaps they weren’t pantyhose, he thought, and raised himself slowly on the balls of his feet. Stockings. Yes. Definitely stockings. A sly smile creased his lips as he imagined the black lacy garter belt they’d be attached to.
“Well, it’s about fucking time!” Felicia Bagby barked, startling the fat man into snortling in his coffee. “Save the excuses for Dexter and patch me through to Nash.” She cradled the phone on her shoulder so her fingers, tanned and fashionably manicured with long, acrylic nails, could disappear inside the silver briefcase.
Ryder heard the nails scuttling about and it made him think of the crabs down at Brewster’s Fish Market in London’s East End. A pang of homesickness jostled him. He knew it would be years before he’d be permitted to return to England. He remembered Pollack’s lunch order and slowly made his way back to the grill.
“Nash-you-imbecile,” she exhaled it as one word in a plume of Marlboro smoke.
Ryder spun around. “Madam,” he said softly, his index finger raised.
“Who gave you the fucking directions, Ray Charles?!” she demanded, her hinged leg swinging higher in frustration.
“That’s not politically correct,” Ryder said to Pollack.
Pollack shook his head in agreement. He dabbed at the coffee dribbling down his chins.
“Well, NO, I guess they weren’t any good, since I’m NOT at the client’s office in Orlando having him sign on the dotted line, but rather in a rundown, two-bit, hole in the wall diner slash drug store in – where the hell IS this?” she demanded of Ryder.
“Eustis.”
“Did you hear that?!” she barked into the phone. “My ass is parked on a rusty red vinyl stool in a place called Eustis for Christ’s sake!” She shifted her firm rear to make the stool squeak. “And to top it off, my car’s dead.”
“There’s no smoking in here, madam.”
Felicia Bagby shot him a look that would have sent her assistant scurrying for safety. She inhaled the Marlboro down to her pointed 3” black leather Prada heels. Nash offered profuse apologies whilst riffling through a sea of papers on his desk.
“Madam.” Ryder tossed the dishtowel over his shoulder. “You’ll have to extinguish that cigarette.”
“Nash-you-cretin, find the fucking directions before I fire your ass! And get the number to Triple A.”
“Madam?” Ryder called, the hose from the sink poised in his hand.
“Do you need a fucking anvil to fall on your head?” she snarled at Ryder. “I’m on the phone.” She did the hair toss and switched the phone to her other ear.
A spray of cold water struck her face and misted her custom-tailored suit. “Are you out of your fucking mind?! she screamed. She untangled her legs and staggered back from the squeaky red vinyl stool, mobile phone in one hand and a saturated cigarette in the other.
Ryder remained behind the counter with the hose in hand, his trigger-finger at the ready.
Pollack gaped. His protruding eyeballs shifting swiftly from the dripping woman to Ryder. The rolls of belly began to jiggle until Pollack erupted in a roar. “You really take your job seriously, boy.” He laughed and clapped a dirty bandana over his mouth as he hacked a fat man’s cough.
Felicia Bagby simultaneously withered Pollack’s mirth with a glance, jerked the phone shut, tossed it into the silver briefcase and let the mushy remnants of the cigarette fall from her fingers. Leaning across the counter, she snatched the dishtowel from Ryder’s shoulder. She removed her sunglasses and dried them. “You just lost yourself this minimum wage gig,” she said and smiled triumphantly. “This is a $2,500 Donna Karan,” she announced and flicked beads of water from the wool/silk blend shawl collar. “A famous designer,” she added, presuming Ryder would not know.
Ryder’s right hand glided absently across the surface of the cigarette that rested behind his right ear.
“Nobody, and I mean nobody pulls a stunt like that and gets away with it,” she promised as she gently patted her face dry.
A gentle smile spread over his lips.
“What’s your name?” she demanded.
Ryder pointed to the pocket of his crisp white shirt.
She squinted at the red embroidered lettering. “I want to speak to your boss.”
“I am the boss.” Ryder smiled.
This news did not faze her. Felicia Bagby was used to hearing bizarre things. “Well, then, the owner.”
“One in the same.” The fingertips of his right hand caressed the smooth surface of the cigarette nestled above his ear.
Her right eyebrow arched to the breaking point. She tapped the tip of her nose with an acrylic fingernail while she thought. “And this is how you treat a customer?” she demanded, gesturing to encompass her damp attire.
“Technically, madam, you are not a customer. You haven’t ordered anything.”
Her knuckles rested on her slim hips. “Am I to attribute this type of rationale to the result of radical inbreeding?” She stared at Ryder, then looked to Pollack for corroboration.
“Oh, we’re not related,” Ryder assured her.
Pollack sat with his mouth agape, donut crumbs on the fringe of his chewing tobacco-stained lips.
“Enjoying the show so far?” She glared at him.
“I ain’t never seed eyebrows that go’d up so high,” he said in awe and pointed a dirty finger at her head.
Without intending to impress him, Felicia Bagby’s right eyebrow inched higher. “I’m confident there are quite a good many things you ain’t never seed,” she said and dried off the red vinyl stood. “Oh, put that away,” she snapped at Ryder, waving in the direction of the hose. “You’ve made your little point.” She raked her nails through her chestnut hair and resat the stool. “Where’s the nearest Hertz or Avis?”
“Unfortunately, madam, our quiet little town is bereft of both.”
“There’s got to be a car rental company.”
“Afraid not, madam.” Ryder ignored her wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of despair and let the hose slurp back into its sink well. His tongue toured his teeth as he walked to the other end of the counter. “You’ve had enough.” He removed the donut display from the counter.
“Aw, Ryder….” Pollack pouted.
“Yes, I need a tow or something.” Felicia Bagby sighed into the phone. “Well, how the hell should I know? I’m not a mechanic!” She picked up the fallen papers, slapped them on the counter and sat.
Ryder titled forward and saw that right leg pumping skyward, hinged over that left knee.
“Listen-to-me-you-idiot!” she pointed an index finger in what would have been the face of the young woman on the other end of the line. “I am Felicia Bagby and I must get to a very important meeting in Orlando. It is critical that I – What was that snapping sound? Is that gum? Are you chewing gum while I’m speaking to you? Yeah?” she imitated the receptionist’s voice. “Have you any idea how unprofessional that sounds to have gum clacking and snapping – amplified mind you – in my ear?” Her hand disappeared into the yawning recesses of the silver briefcase and withdrew, holding a gold lighter and pack of Marlboros. “Put your supervisor on. I refuse to speak –“ she spun and faced Ryder. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” she sighed and rolled her eyes heavenwards.
Ryder stood with the hose in his hand, aimed at her face. A half smile creased his lips. “It’s loaded.”
She strode to the glass front door and pushed it open with her firm behind. The brass miniature of the Liberty Bell tingled as she exited. She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“Buns o’ steel,” Pollack whispered to Ryder and chuckled.
“That isn’t all,” Ryder agreed.
“Of course I’m still here! Where the fuck do you think I’d be?” she shouted into the phone and blew an angry could of smoke at a bed of lantana. “Look, I’ve got my hands full of morons right here, I don’t need any shit from you. Where’s your goddamned supervisor? I can still hear you chewing! Remove it from your mouth at once!” Felicia Bagby gasped audibly.
Ryder glanced toward the door.
“She hung up on me! The little gum-snapping bitch hung up on me!”
Ryder grinned.
“I’m in hell,” she groaned and punched the redial button.
“Where’re you going?” Ryder asked as Pollack quickly removed the bandana from his collar and jammed it hastily in his side pocket. “You haven’t had your popcorn shrimp and clam strips.” He held out the sizzling wrought iron frying plan enticingly.
Pollack guppied as his brain raced. “I don’t wanna be here when she finds out Triple A don’t service this vicinity.” He slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter and waddled to the door. He gulped greedily as he neared Felicia Bagby and crossed himself.
“’Scuse me, Ma’am,” he whispered and squeezed his way through the screen door, making the bell carol rawkishly.
Ryder jerked the frying pan to keep the popcorn shrimp and clam strips from sticking. He glanced at the faded Coca-Cola clock over the grill and counted aloud, “Five, four, three, two, one.”
The screen door jingled demurely. “Afternoon, Ryder.” The young female voice sounded sultry and seductive.
“Afternoon, Verna,” Ryder replied and gave a two finger, sideways salute whilst jerking the frying pan some more.
Verna Montgomery stood firm at the entrance, her loose-leaf binder and stenography textbook clasped tightly against her flat abdomen, allowing her ample bosom to overflow the rim of the textbook. The tip of her tongue darted out to lick at the bubble gum flavored lip-gloss she wore. It matched the pink hair ribbon that held her ponytail in place. The hint of pink nail polish caught what little light filtered through the dust motes as she smoothed her gray flannel poodle skirt.
“What’ll it be today, Verna? Cherry float?”
“Why, Ryder, you remembered.” She sighed and with a little bounce, glided toward the counter in her saddle shoes, beaming at Ryder.
“Course I remembered. You have the same thing every day.” He returned the smile.
Verna blushed and lowered her chin, embarrassed to be caught fishing for a compliment. She set her books on the counter and gently fluffed the shoulders of her pink angora sweater. She slid onto a middle stool and folded her hands neatly on top of her books.
“You certainly look pretty today, Verna,” Ryder said in a lowered voice as he dropped a loaded scoop of vanilla ice cream into the silver cylinder. His deep-set hazel eyes settled on her young face.
Verna’s blush deepened and her lashes fluttered. “I couldn’t wait to show you my costume. I hope you’ll come and see me.” She slid a ticket from between the pages of her textbook. “I have something for you,” she sang and inched it toward him across the counter.
Ryder gave the cherry float an extra squirt of cherry sauce and slid two straws in between the ice cream and the glass. He set the float down in front of Verna and leaned his head down to read the ticket. His tongue searched his teeth while his right hand stroked the cigarette above his ear.
“I don’t fucking believe it!” Felicia Bagby wailed as she reentered the diner, the bell announcing her return.
“Language, Madam,” Ryder rebuked and cocked his head toward Verna.
The arch in Felicia Bagby’s right eyebrow reached new heights when she took in Verna Montgomery. “Good Christ! I am in the land time forgot!” She held one hand over her heart and gripped the edge of the counter with the other. “Tell me you’re doing Grease,” Felicia Bagby said and reached for a calming cigarette.
“Uh-huh.” Verna nodded, eager to discuss it. Her ponytail swished. “I’ve got the lead.”
“Well, of course, you do,” Felicia Bagby said sardonically as she plopped her firm behind on the first red vinyl stool. Her padded shoulders slumped. Staring off into space, she spoke to herself. “First I get lost, possibly blowing a $4.5 million deal because my idiot assistant gives me the wrong fucking directions. Then my car breaks down in this God-forsaken place. Then my $2,500 Donna Karan gets drenched by some nitwit with his name on his pocket.” She shot a vengeful look at Ryder while protectively touching the shawl collar. “And now I’m told that AAA doesn’t service this area. I don’t fucking believe it!”
Verna coughed and spluttered, her pinkened cheeks growing blotchy.
Ryder pursed his lips and cracked his neck. His trigger finger twitched as he walked toward the sink.
“No, Ryder, don’t!” Verna cried and jumped to her feet, her large breasts toppling the cherry float.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Madam,” Ryder said quietly.
“Gladly,” Felicia Bagby agreed. “As soon as I can get somebody to fix my car. You got a mechanic in this town?”
“Pollack’s. Three doors down.” Ryder hiked his thumb over his right shoulder.
“Pollack’s?”
“You know the fellow who was just in here?”
“That Weight Watcher’s Poster Boy Reject?” Felicia Bagby asked incredulously and held her arms out as though to encompass a rotund form.
“Bingo.” Ryder nodded and touched his index finger to the tip of his nose.
“Why not? It makes perfect sense,” she said with a sigh, accepting her fate. She nodded, then shook her head. She walked to the glass door and paused, turning to face Ryder. Her mouth opened to speak but her words were stalled by the stern look he gave her. He cocked his head toward Verna, eyebrows knitted.
Felicia Bagby’s already erect body stood taller. “Sorry if my language offended you, precious,” she called to Verna who was busy cleaning the spilled cherry float.
“Apology accepted,” Verna said politely, dabbing at the stained ticket.
“Now don’t miss a fucking drop,” Felicia Bagby admonished and tossed her head back, laughing.
Verna’s cheeks flushed with mortification and her widened blue eyes sought Ryder’s.
“What do you expect?” Ryder asked as he walked toward Verna from behind the counter. “She’s from New York.”
Verna nodded and sniffed away the beginning of a tear.
