AFTER THE FLOAT inspection, Kay dropped Aunt Ula and Vera at the house. Running late, she called Selana Sorder as she drove, hoping to make it a short conversation. Why was it so easy to give orders, but being accountable for them was something else? She breathed a sigh of relief when an answering machine picked up.
“Selana, this is Kay McCabe. I changed the float. Willie, the driver, can see where he’s going now. I don’t know what promises I’ve ruined for you, but tell any church that complains it’s my fault. Tell them God would be unbelievably ticked about the lawsuits and bad press caused by our float running over sinners. Everyone at the warehouse seemed happy, but then, you’re probably the one who’ll talk to the unhappy ones. The project is back on schedule and will be ready in time.”
She hung up, relieved she wouldn’t be home this afternoon to get the call back on that message.
As Kay neared Tulio’s, she saw why Ace had wanted her to work. The staff could handle the 250 seats in the restaurant, but Ace had figured out how to make room for more guests. The parking lot was blocked by black and yellow Do-Not-Cross tape looped between barricades and orange cones. In her usual parking place sat a platform topped with a white canopy. A skinny man with a half-grown goatee was hooking up amplifiers and speakers. In the opposite corner, beneath another white tent, the liftgate on a beer truck slowly lowered a pallet of kegs. Smoke rolled into the air next to the makeshift tent-bar, where a grizzled man slathered barbeque sauce on chicken cutlets sizzling over coals. “You’re late. And you need to park in the Dirt Garage,” Ace called across the lot. College flunkies, laden with folding chairs, followed his pointing finger to an area where they began setting up chairs and tables.
“When was I supposed to be here? Lunch isn’t for another hour.” Kay gaped at the activity with her head out the car window.
“Change of plans. We’re opening early. More sales. Get crackin’.”
Kay snorted. And she was supposed to know that? She parked two blocks away in the rutted, shrub-hidden parcel where the city kept equipment. It was dubbed the Dirt Garage by locals. Other cars were parked next to a road grader and an asphalt roller. As Kay locked up and walked the bushy alleyway leading back to the street, she hoped Ace had made arrangements with city hall so staff wouldn’t be bailing their cars out of the Tough-Luck Towing compound this afternoon.
She hurried past the lot and stepped through Tulio’s door into noise soup. Voices yelled across the dining room. “We need more parmesan,” “Get the bottled oil off the tables,” “Who has the copies of the specials?” Shouting erupted from the kitchen. Three servers ran out. “Don’t go in there,” Trina warned. “Armondo is having a meltdown. Something’s wrong with the buns.”
“When did this parking lot scheme get decided?”
“Apparently in Ace’s dreams. I think he’s been up all night, arranging it. We’re looking for a place to hide.”
“Take some muscle and get the kegs in the cooler arranged.” Kay received a thankful salute from Trina. Several hamburger buns flew through the kitchen doorway, accompanied by a string of curses. Kay peeked around the corner. The Executive Chef saw her as he raised a cleaver. Pausing a moment to yell, “Get Ace!” he brought down the broad-bladed knife. The bun mashed but didn’t sever. Kay ducked as the chef hurled the bun through the doorway, chasing it with more profanity.
Kay found Ace outside. “The bread delivery guy needs you in the kitchen. Armando’s chasing him with a hatchet.”
“For the love of figwort. Can’t anyone think today? Count those chairs.” He pointed as he left. “And put up ‘Cash Only’ signs everywhere. The card system is down again.”
“Will my car be towed?” she asked, but Ace was already stomping away.
The scraggly bearded guy took the platform, tuned a few chords on his guitar, and began singing a reedy John Lennon montage. People drifted into the parking lot.
For the next four hours, the incessant yapping, barking requests, and chasing supplies made Kay feel as though she were in an animal shelter. The complaints about no debit or credit cards and the lines at the ATM machine in Tulio’s lobby grew but didn’t slow the onslaught of hungry, thirsty appetites. With each turning step, someone was asking for something. “Hey, can I get a beer? A chicken leg? A pizza? A napkin? They ran out of cups, change, and ice.
Five minutes before her shift was over, the card system came back on-line. Kay sneered at her luck. All day, she’d listened to complaints from both customers and servers. It cut into their tips. She ran the credit card on her final table and was returning it for a signature when someone called her name.
“Hey, Big Bill.” She smiled, stopping to chat with the graphic artist and a few people from her former workplace. “Are you all still employed at Sagebrush?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” The man’s belly bulged through the opening in his jacket and rubbed against the table as he tugged his ear, glancing at his associates. “We heard you worked here now.”
“Yep.” Kay nodded, her lips in a tight smile. “Usually I’m the bartender, but I’m filling in for lunches today.” Everyone around the table smiled and nodded politely as though Tulio’s was the natural progression to a Carnegie Prize. “Well, we’re really slammed. Good to see everybody. Have a great lunch.” She smiled and stepped away.
“Wait!” Big Bill reached out then quickly drew back his hand to tug his ear. “We were wondering… would you happen to have those sketches you did for the Richmoor account?”
Kay let the question hang between them for several seconds. When she answered, her voice was slow and level, “The specs were on my computer. Check it.”
“Oh, yeah. Uh…I did, but they aren’t the drawings Mr. Richmoor wants. I’m real sorry to ask you about it.” Big Bill glanced around for support, but his associates conspicuously stared at the menu or studied the design in the tabletop. “He…Mr. Richmoor…doesn’t want the specs. He said you did sketches for him right there in his office. He says that’s what he signed the contract for and that’s what he’s buying. Nothing else will work. I was wondering…do you still have those?” Big Bill’s earlobe had turned bright red and was beginning to swell.
“You’re kidding me.” Kay leaned forward. Her whisper came out half hiss, “You came here? Now? To ask me this?”
“Honest to goodness, I didn’t want to. Kurt said anything done on company time is intellectual property, so those sketches are his. He said if he has to, he’ll sue you to get those drawings. He’s really desperate. The company’s in that much trouble. I told him to wait. I’d ask you, but I kind of put it off till he had a fit this morning.”
Kay wasn’t sure what was more unbelievable: that her boss who’d fired her now expected her to save the company or that Big Bill didn’t have the brain cells to use a phone. She was even more amazed blood wasn’t dripping from the side of man’s big, round head. The other employees weren’t even pretending to read the menu anymore. Their eyes darted back and forth between Kay’s face and Big Bill as he cranked his meaty lobe in circles.
“You tell my former boss…” Kay leaned closer, pulling the man’s pudgy hand from his ear, “I burned those sketches. So he can go to hell to find them.” She dotted the exclamation in her voice by double-tapping the table with the credit card she was carrying and walked away. Without any small talk, she dropped the card and ticket at the customer’s table and hurried to the cooler. With the door shut tight, she sat on a keg and took a deep breath.
“AAAAAArrrrggghhhhh!!!” She yelled over and over, until the racks and kegs in the tiny space were patchy with the hoarfrost of her frozen frustration.
The shin-kicking nerve of some people. What a relief she didn’t work there anymore. And how could her former colleagues be such spineless pushovers and even ask her? Especially under the guise of coming here for lunch. She took another deep breath, concentrating on letting it out slowly as she checked her watch. Late again. At this moment, she was supposed to be in front of the theater.
Inhaling one last chilly breath, she jerked her apron off and stepped from the cooler. She’d pick up her tip money tomorrow. Right now she needed to escape.
Kay’s shoulders sagged. Ace was standing at the host desk. She shook her head, mentally flinging off irritation like a dog shedding his bathwater and eyed an exit route to the door. The one day he chose to do his job would have to be today, wouldn’t it? Straightening her shoulders, she walked. “I’m late. See you tomorrow,” she called as she passed.
“Hey, c’mere,” Ace grunted. Kay stopped, her eyes squeezing shut. She recognized that tone. She should’ve gone out through the side door, even if it meant a face-full of grilled-chicken smoke. She turned on one heel, her eyes set in a hard stare. Ace pointed with his chin. “You see that couple going out the door there?”
“Yeah, two soup and salad specials, balsamic dressing, a beer and a Dr. Pepper. What of it?”
“They claim you showed their credit card information to another table.”
“I did what?” Kay blinked. Her voice pitched between a squeal and a yell. “What?” She turned and went after the couple. Ace lumbered behind her, calling, “Whoa. Whoa.” People waiting to be seated watched the five second drama pass by then returned to their conversations and checking their phones.
“Stop. Right now,” Ace barked as soon as they’d exited the doors.
Kay paused, her head swiveling, scanning for a couple in black jackets and orange scarves like the fifty other people drinking beer, eating grilled chicken, and wearing university colors in the crowded parking lot. “I’m no thief. And I’m not taking any more crap from nuts who think they’re royalty, sitting on their butts, expecting me to make them the center of the world.” Ace grabbed her. She looked at his big hand circling her arm then slowly raised her eyes, glaring at him.
“Did you stop at any table when you had their credit card in your hand?” he asked.
“Briefly, yes. I said a few words to some friends before I delivered the ticket. But I didn’t give out information or hold it up like a game show hostess.”
“Some people are freakin’ maniacs about their cards. When you take someone’s credit card, you go straight to the register, and return it straight back to them. I know routines were off-kilter today because the readers were down earlier, but when you have a card, no picking up dishes. No dropping off water. No chatting with another table. It’s all about security.”
“Since when?”
“Since always. What? They didn’t cover that in your Junior Hospitality workshop?”
Kay yanked her arm from his grasp and checked her watch. Ten minutes late. “Anything else?”
“You look like you’re about to pop a gasket. You aren’t going to argue?”
“Since I’ve worked here, I’ve learned to hate people.”
“Me, too. Go team. Rah rah. Blah blah. Now get outta here before you get hold of one of Armando’s cleavers. Hey,” he called as she walked away. “I expect you early tomorrow. Park in the Dirt Garage. And pick up a Cowboy mascot balloon to tie to the sandwich board.”
She kept walking.
*
“This has been a really bad day.” Kay held up a hand, fending off Vera and Aunt Ula’s inquisitive looks. “I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just go to a movie where everything gets blown up. Preferably one where aliens wipe out humanity.”
“I don’t care what I see.” Aunt Ula shrugged. “Those actors mumble their lines most of the time. Who can tell what they’re saying? Explosives are okay by me.”
“The movie I wanted to watch has already started.” Vera stared at the marquee. “I don’t feel like watching anyone die. I think I’ll go home. Maybe the boys will let me assist them with your surprise supper.” She wore a faint smile. “And in the spirit of ruining surprises, but keeping you informed, Lazlo brought you a dozen red roses.”
“Really?” The lines around Kay’s eyes softened.
“Probably stole them off a grave,” Aunt Ula mumbled as she pulled Kay to the ticket window.
Once inside the theater, Kay announced, “We’re getting the biggest drinks and popcorn they’ve got. And don’t say, ‘It’ll ruin our suppers’ like Vera would.”
“I was going to say the corn hulls get in the gaps in my teeth. How ’bout big boxes of candy instead?”
“Yeah. What was I thinking?”
It didn’t surprise Kay they were the only ones in the theater. Most people were busy the day before the big game. Aunt Ula sat in several places, finally choosing seats exactly in the center, declaring them to be perfect.
During the trailers, a man entered and sat in the row in front of them, three seats to the right. The musical score, loud enough to blow their hair back, grew even more annoying as a group of actors, past their prime, fought their way out of a jungle.
“For old men, they look pretty good to me. How ’bout you?” Aunt Ula yelled over the action-hero soundtrack. The man in the row in front of them turned around. Kay assumed he was glaring, but she couldn’t see his face.
“Shhhh. Speak softer. We’re not alone.”
“Why do they mumble like their tongues are stitched in the middle? I’ve heard pygmies jabber more clearly.” Aunt Ula’s voice was an octave below shouting.
A longer stare came from the man.
When the over-the-hill mercenaries moved their battle to the mountains, the body count began to rise. Amid the pop of gunfire and whop-whop of helicopters blades, Aunt Ula called out, “Who’s that?” Frequently followed by, “Is he a bad or good? They’re all dressed alike.”
The man turned around. “Why the hell don’t you sit up front so you can hear?”
Aunt Ula leaned forward, her scrawny voice drowned out by an on-screen knife fight. “We were here first. You move.”
“Let’s go.” Kay tugged on her arm. “I’ve dealt with jerks all day.”
“No!” Aunt Ula’s words tweaked up a notch. “We won’t be bullied out of our seats.” She latched onto the armrests. Several explosions and a love scene later, the old woman asked, “Are you gonna finish your Milk Duds?” Kay handed over the candy. Aunt Ula gave the box a couple of shakes before rolling dudlets into her hand.
“Could you shut the hell up?” the man called.
Missile and mortar fire reverberated through the Dolby sound system. Aunt Ula shook the box harder, knocking more dudlets into her palm. The man cursed again—yelling this time.
“I’m getting the manager.” The old woman scuttled down the row. Kay snatched up her food and purse and followed.
As Aunt Ula passed behind the guy she yelled, “If the Captain was here, he’d kick your keister and hang you from the jib.”
The gorilla-faced man laughed. “I’m really scared, ya ol’ broad.” He turned, leering over his shoulder as Kay passed. “I’d let you kick my ass. Ya wanna try?”
With a wrist-flick, Kay dumped her quart-sized soda over his head. The man gulped air as his back bowed. Kay didn’t have to tell Aunt Ula to get moving. The old woman was already in the aisle, her footsteps fast-slapping toward the door.
Kay passed her when they reached the lobby and was almost to the snack counter when Aunt Ula, two steps behind, screamed.
Kay turned to see her rolling on the floor, yelling, “Don’t hurt me again.”
A six-foot tall, round-shouldered man stood over the old woman. His heavy-lidded eyes peered out of a mid-thirty face. The hair on his head was as long as his three-day-old-beard. His head jerked up as Kay flew at him. He stepped back, his hands in front of him. “I barely touched her. I just grabbed her sleeve. I swear. I swear.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Kay screamed. “Why would you sit next to women and harass them?”
“Hey! It was you causin’ the ruckus.”
Aunt Ula held her arm, her moans rising from the floor. The man stepped around Kay and bent over the old woman. “I’m real sorry. I didn’t mean to scare ya. Let’s get ya up.” He pulled at her shoulder.
“Get away from her!” Kay smashed her empty cup on top of his head.
The muscled man straightened, watching the accordioned cup roll away. He moved his stare to Kay. “Look, lady—”
A lanky gentleman in a red vest ran up. “The police have been called.” His name tag identified him as Mr. Wheaton, the manager. “I suggest you step back, sir, until we get this sorted out.”
Kay, on all fours, hovered over Aunt Ula. “Where did he hurt you?”
The old woman gave Kay a wink then moaned as though her arm had been stapled by a pitchfork.
Kay rocked back, sitting on her rear. She let out a breath, staring down the long carpeted hallway leading into theaters. Could this really be happening? Arrested at the movies? Behind her, she heard the man explaining, “She dumped a friggin’ drink on me.”
Aunt Ula moaned again. “He threatened us because we spilled a drink. You heard it.” She waved an arm at the red-vested manager, momentarily forgetting which one was hurt. “I’m suing you.”
The manager’s narrow-set eyes widened. “I’m sure this can be worked out, ma’am.” He knelt on the floor, fawning over the old woman. After posing several questions, he repeated Aunt Ula’s words, “And he said he wanted you ladies to kick his…backside?” With a cocked eyebrow, Mr. Wheaton turned to confirm the story with the leather-jacketed man.
No one was there.
“Where’d he go?” Without waiting for an answer, Mr. Wheaton was on his feet, hurrying across the lobby. “Did you see him leave?” Both Kay and the bun-haired blond stirring the popcorn shook their heads. The manager dashed out the door.
Two officers arrived minutes later, along with an ambulance. The EMTs began prodding Aunt Ula. She swatted them, swearing in Thai and Dutch. The only English they could make out was: “Get away,” “Gloved quacks,” and “My own doctor.”
Kay tried to get her to sit up. A woman in a dark navy uniform, her chest bound in Kevlar, introduced herself as Officer Bleu. She asked what happened with questions fast and short as though she were pecking for answers. She reminded Kay of a blue jay. Her face was a study of angles, with a small tuft of black bangs rising from her hairline and a long braid trailing down her back. She continually cocked her head while her body moved as she assessed the situation. Aunt Ula answered questions with a loud, “What?’ or a “Did he take my Milk Duds, too?” After several tries and getting no clear answers, Officer Bleu gave up and consulted her partner.
Kay dismissed the EMTs. She nodded at their parting advice, but her mind was replaying snippets of what had happened. Why hadn’t the guy moved if she and Aunt Ula were so irritating? How could he have even heard them over anti-tank missiles? The movie’s loud explosions were still buzzing her ears, or maybe that was the afterglow of anger whopping through her head. She still felt a hot fury shooting through her core; obviously not all of it had exploded with the clout to gorilla man’s dull-eyed skull.
An EMT touched her arm. “And maybe you should get checked out, too. You don’t look so good.” Kay nodded. Her clenched jaw wouldn’t respond. She concentrated on relaxing her fists at her side.
When the EMTs left, Kay got Aunt Ula to sit up. Officer Bleu knelt beside them. “Look,” she said in her rat-a-tat tempo. “The other party has left the scene. The manager thinks he got the license plate...or the man could still be in the lot. He’s not sure. Obviously, the other party would rather not deal with the police, but you should know there are witnesses who confirm you smashed an empty cup over his head. He can bring a charge of assault if he wishes.”
“It was self-defense,” Aunt Ula called from the floor, squealing a half-beat late when Kay grabbed her arm, to haul her to her feet. Officer Bleu helped the old woman rise.
“He was creepy,” Kay said. “Have you ever had one of the gorillas at the zoo stare at you, and you were relieved there was thick glass separating you?” Kay glanced at the door, wondering how many encounters it had taken the guy to hone his finely-timed sense of knowing when to act and how to slip away when the law wasn’t looking.
“Here.” Officer Bleu pressed a business card into Kay’s hand. “Call if something comes up.”
The red-vested manager approached, ram-rod straight, wearing a somber expression bordering on pompous. “We have a policy. When a patron causes trouble, their theater privileges are revoked. It’s for everyone’s safety. All parties will be allowed to attend again in six months. The police will escort you out.”
“Great.” Kay sighed. Now she was barred from the only theater in town. She kept her head down, figuring Mr. Wheaton might snap their photos and post them in the employee’s lounge under the caption: Be On The Lookout.
The police stood in front of the theater watching Kay help Aunt Ula limp to the car. “I thought it was your arm not your leg that was supposed to be hurt,” Kay whispered.
“That floor was hard. I lay there so long that I kind of got stove up.”
Kay put Aunt Ula in the Mazda, got in, and sat, staring out the window. “Boy,” the old lady grinned, “do we do movies, or what?”
“I can’t go home,” Kay said.