Midnight Cafe

Taggert shuffles through the door in the dead pouring night. A thunderclap mutes the chime above the entrance to the greasy spoon off highway nowhere. He wags the wet off and stomps his shoes on the welcome mat. He spots McNeil at a back booth, checks the perimeter head down, strides over squelchy footsmacks on the tile with his trench coat collar up.

“Jesus,” McNeil says, dumps sugar in his coffee, shrugs a hand in disbelief, “took you long enough.”

Taggert frowns down the man, shuffles off the wet coat and throws it on the hook next to the booth with a damp slop.

“Anything good here?” Taggert says, slumps in across from McNeil with vinyl crunch. “I’m starving.”

“Don’t know,” McNeil says, “haven’t ordered yet,” he says, lifts his mug. “Coffee’s plenty hot though.” He sips from the steaming cup in exhibit and pushes the menu across the table.

“You must not a been here too long then,” Taggert says, glances down at the all-night breakfast list.

“Long enough,” McNeil says, “but what’s done is done.” He measures Taggert. “What’s the plan?”

Taggert flashes eyes up to McNeil then out to take the place in better. The only other customer slouches at the counter in thick red checkered flannel over a paper and Taggert links him to the big rig out back. One waitress flits between the counter and the kitchen. Out the kitchen flumes bacon and fried onions on the edge of burnt, fighting for reign with a fresh pot of piping crude the waitress pours up for the trucker. An undercurrent of something else, old rot or wet mold sneaks in between sizzling waves and Taggert looks back to McNeil.

“It is off the beaten path alright,” Taggert says.

“What’d I tell you?” McNeil says, then fingers through the little plastic creamer cups.

“If anything, it’s too far off the path,” Taggert says, picks up the menu. “A couple a smokeys stop in for waffles and we’re toast,” he says, looks down at the listed offerings in earnest. “You can’t blend in if there’s nowhere to blend.”

“Relax,” McNeil says, fishes out a french vanilla from the bottom. “This place has the worst rating in twenty miles,” he says, tears it open. “I looked online.”

“They tell ya that stuff on the computer now?” Taggert says, eyes up to McNeil. He shakes his head and sighs and goes on scanning the menu.

“They tell you everything on the computer,” McNeil says, dumps in the creamer and stirs it with a fork.

Taggert tosses up his head and a couple digits to catch the waitress’s eye and a strong “Coffee please” just big enough to get her attention. She nods from behind the counter and snags a clean cup from a hanging rack.

“One step at a time,” Taggert says, quiet again, face to McNeil and hands laced on the table.

McNeil leans in. “This is the next step,” he says, cradles the mug between his mitts. “Meet at the diner after midnight, staggered out over a couple hours until everyone’s here.”

Taggert glances aside and sighs, leans in to mirror McNeil. “Well we got two little piggies left, don’t we?” Taggert says. “So just—”

“Thanks for waiting,” the waitress says, a rote grin, plops down an empty cup and spills in coffee up to the brim and a splash over. “You boys wanna order something?”

Taggert looks up to her name badge, Lizzie, and lingers on her ample bosom.

“I grew up with a Lizzie,” he says, a fat smile. “Good girl. Lived down the street. Married a bum though. You married, Lizzie?”

“Can’t say I had the pleasure,” Lizzie says flat, flirt shield up.

“You got time, sweetheart,” Taggert says, holds her eyes and shines out brighter his yellow teeth.

“What’s good here?” McNeil says, takes another sip of coffee with a wince.

Taggert shoots him an evil eye for the cockblock and wipes up the drips with his napkin.

“Oh, let’s see,” Lizzie says, eyes up and away to think. “The pancakes are fine, the eggs too but not easy ‘cause this one overcooks ‘em,” she thumbs back to the kitchen, “that goes for the bacon too unless you like it black, some folks do. What else. Oatmeal is fine. Um—”

“Do you have a house special?” McNeil says, cuts her off, calls off the search for good to settle for edible.

“Well,” she says, eyes back down on the customers and hand at hip, “yes, but it’s not the best right now.”

The two men glance quick at each other and back to her.

“What is it?” Taggert says, leans toward the wall side for a better view, his orbs floating between waitress tits and face.

“Chicken fried steak and eggs,” she says, pulls the pen and pad in front of her chest. “It’s really the best thing we got but we’re out of the secret ingredient.”

“Oooh,” Taggert says. “What’s the secret ingredient?” he says with a sly grin.

“It’s secret,” Lizzie says.

“Oh come on,” Taggert says coquette, “you can tell me.”

“But it’s secret,” she says again to an idiot child.

“I’ll have the pancakes,” McNeil says, reaches for another sugar. “Dare I ask if the blueberries are ok?”

“They’re fine,” she says, shrugs. “You don’t even notice ‘em.”

“Perfect,” McNeil says, adds a nod.

“And for you?” she says, turn sighs back to Taggert.

“I’ll try that chicken fried steak,” he says. “Scrambled,” he says. “White toast.”

“Are you sure?” she says, slight brow furrow. “It’s really not that good right now,” she says, a little headshake.

“I’m feeling risky,” Taggert says, winks.

She jots the order on the pad. “American fries ok?” she says.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Taggert says.

Lizzie clocks another rote partial grin, eyes down at the pad, then goes back to the kitchen.

“Did you get a load of those?” Taggert says when she swings through the kitchen door. “Jesus Christ,” he says, “out to here.” He throws his cupped hands out in front of his chest to illustrate the capacity of Lizzie’s breasts.

“Quite charming, yes,” McNeil says without interest, sips the coffee for taste and frowns.

Taggert waves him away and looks out the window.

“Wait,” Taggert says, “we got something.”

McNeil joins him as a car turns off the highway.

“One of ours?” McNeil says.

“They’re not trooper headlights,” Taggert says, a mite relieved.

The car purrs past the diner and off into the night.

McNeil sighs and moves his face from the window, snags two more creamer cups and dumps them into his coffee.

“You gotta be ready for anything,” Taggert says, a hint of disdain. “Anything,” he says again, flashes McNeil with the snub nose tucked inside the breast of his sport coat. “You know that,” he says. He relaxes and sips from his coffee, cringes. “Christ, this is bad joe,” he says. “And I still think this is too conspicuous.”

“Bad reviews, remember?” McNeil says, taps his cup for emphasis.

Taggert nods this away. They sit in silence a beat, do their best to down the molten tar.

Taggert leans in over the table. “The next step is,” he says, “you help me disappear.” He leans back and slides a not at McNeil.

McNeil cocks his face, furrows brows. “What’s that?” McNeil says.

“I’ll have to tell you anyway when they get here,” Taggert says, leans back into his seat to nurse the coffee. “You help me die.”

McNeil’s eyes go wide. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it.

“Well, not really die,” Taggert says. “I mean ‘die’,” he says, shoots air quotes.

McNeil laughs, crosses his arms over his chest. “What, you mean fake your death?” he says, stares off out the window and shakes his head.

Taggert wags his head to mull his words, plays with his mug. “I had a job,” Taggert says at last, eyes on McNeil. “Before this one," he says, jerks a thumb over shoulder. "The job went bad,” he says. “Kid wasn’t supposed to be there. I told him to get lost. He didn’t. He got tough, so,” he shrugs, “I got tougher. Things happen,” he says. “How’s I supposed to know he was connected?”

“Don’t say another word,” McNeil says, putts a hand up, sighs out the window and back to Taggert, leans in. “Jesus Christ, you gotta clear your conscience or something?” he says. “Do I look like a priest?”

“I’m a dead man,” Taggert says. “It don’t matter what you know.”

“Yeah but I don’t want to join you,” McNeil says, “and you don’t want to be dead for real.” He takes up his mug but sets it back down. “Does Moroni know?”

Taggert face shrugs, glances away and back to the man. “Moroni set it up,” Taggert says.

McNeil laughs, leans in. “Not a chance,” he says. “Moroni wouldn’t—”

“Here you go, boys,” Lizzie says, clanks the plates down in front of the men. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No ma’am,” McNeil says, head down, grabs the syrup dispenser and drowns the polkadot flapjacks.

Taggert shuts his eyes and breathes in the gravy. “Mmmm this smells great, Lizzie,” he says, turns his eyes up to her tits. “What were you worried about?”

“Okay then,” Lizzie says. “More coffee?”

“No,” the men say in unison. “Waters,” McNeil adds.

Lizzie flashes a look but tucks it away then half smiles and nods before shuffling off.

Taggert cuts off a piece of the fried steak and dabs it in gravy. “Listen,” he says, leans in again, “Moroni’s got things in the works too,” he says, forks the bite into his chopper and starts chewing. “You’ll see,” he says.

McNeil cuts a bite from his stack. “I don’t want to see,” he says. “And I don’t want to know.”

Taggert crunches up his face and takes the napkin from his lap. He gags and spits the steak mess into it.

“Jesus Christ!” he says. He snatches his coffee mug and downs the last tepid swallow, then rolls his mouth around to gauge the taste. He snags the rest of McNeil’s coffee and gulps that back too.

“Whoa, whoa,” McNeil says, sets down his fork and puts his hands out to calm Taggert. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Like hell,” Taggert says. “Water!” he calls out. The trucker pivots on his stool and stares over his shoulder at the booth.

“Calm down,” McNeil says under breath. “You’re drawing attention.”

“Christ this tastes like shit,” Taggert says. “Water!” he calls louder, then looks down at his plate. “Rancid meat.”

McNeil stands up and scoots over to the counter, the waitress out of sight. “Hey can we get some—” he says as he pokes his head through the swinging doors to the kitchen, “—waters,” he says and his eyes take in something out of order but before his brain can sort it here comes Lizzie trundling out with a glass of ice water in each hand.

She follows McNeil back to the table and sets them down. “What’s the problem?” she says to Taggert in cocked head frown of mock regard.

Taggert yanks his glass up and knocks it back and down the gullet. Little streams pour around each side of his mouth. He smacks it back on the table and wipes his lips with the back of his hand and glares up at the waitress, square in the eyes.

“This meat is rotten,” he says, points to the plate where gray sauce congeals over a breaded disk of fried meat. “You gave me rotten food,” he says.

McNeil catches the fire in his eyes and chimes in. “Easy, easy, it’s not her fault.”

“But I told you you shouldn’t get it right now,” Lizzie says, blank stares down at Taggert.

Taggert looks away, gathers words and smiles. His palms rest on the table and roll into fists. “No,” he says in teacher mode, eyes up on hers. “What you said was it’s not that good right now,” he says. “That implies that it should still be edible,” he says. “It does not imply, not fucking remotely, that the chicken fried steak this morning, sir, is in fact entirely rotten,” he says. “Does it, Lizzie?”

The waitress inches away from Taggert and the first sign of alarm skews her face open and she blinks. “But,” she says, then changes tack, “I understand,” she says. “What would you like to order instead?”

Taggert chuckles and looks down, then sighs and eyes back up to her face. “I would like to speak with the cook,” he says. He reaches inside his sport coat and leaves his hand there. “Please heave your massive chest back into the kitchen and get the cook for me,” he says. “I would like a word with him.”

“He’ll just order something else,” McNeil says, then looks across to Taggert. “Right?”

“No,” Taggert says, eyes still on Lizzie, “I’ll see the cook.”

The waitress looks to McNeil and back to Taggert, freezes.

“Now!” Taggert says.

She starts and scuttles to the kitchen door.

“Calm down, man,” McNeil says, head down but eyes about and around. He spots the trucker still looking at them. “Nothing going on here, friend,” McNeil says to the flanneled man. “Go back to your paper.”

“No one feeds me rotten food,” Taggert says in eerie calm. “Nobody."

“Easy,” McNeil says. “Just be cool now,” he says.

“Stop telling me to be cool or you’re next,” Taggert says. “I’m not fucking around here,” he says, hand still planted firmly in the inside breast pocket.

“You do what I think you’re doing and the only place you’re going is the can,” McNeil says, amps up his own nerve. “You can forget—”

“You don’t like the food?” the cook says.

McNeil and Taggert follow the bloody apron up to the massive form it wraps. Acrid copper stench spews from the red and black purple stains splayed across the chest in fresh death. The elephant arms latch on to whale wide shoulders and a croc stump neck to a broad chthonic face. McNeil summons a lost nightmare from long ago and all the verve and plans for stolen loot empty out like warm piss. And the cook’s hands are hidden in the apron and—

“Did you give me this rancid shit?” Taggert says, one hand still in his pocket and the other flipping up one edge of the plate so it splats back down on the table. “Huh?” he says, points his free hand at the slop. “Did you do that?”

The cook's face speaks nothing. Moves nowhere. The mouth flatlines against the stretched canvas behind it. The eyes bare only an abyss, and don’t blink, and don’t hint its secrets as one ursine hand draws out a butcher’s cleaver and plants it in the top of Taggert’s head down to the nose with a moist crunch.

McNeil shudders. His mouth shakes open and eyes quake wide to gaze in the split head of Taggert, whose own jaw hangs in limp ruin as blood starts its course down into the gape.

McNeil comes to and throws his arms across the table to snag Taggert’s revolver. The cook yanks his other hand from the apron and slaps McNeil’s arms tight to the surface, then tugs the cleaver from its brain sheath and guillotines it onto McNeil’s wrists. McNeil jerks the squirting stubs up in front of his face and screams. The blade comes down again.

---------------------------------

Jack Morton ambles through the cafe door in the damp twilight. The bell above the entrance rings his company to the handful of tired faces specked out around the place. He wipes his shoes on the welcome mat and spies Jimmy Doyle at a back booth. He nods and does the room a once over and takes a seat across from Jimmy.

Jack sits down and looks around again. “What gives?” he says, hands and shoulders up in shrug. “Where is everyone?”

“Search me,” Jimmy says and scarfs down another bite of food.

Jack frowns. “Our guys are"—glances at his watch—"two hours late and you’re eating?” he says.

Jimmy keeps at it, looks up only to confirm what he hears.

“Unbelievable,” Jack says, shakes his head, looks back over at Jimmy in full glut. “That good or something?” he says, tosses a pointer to Jimmy’s plate.

Jimmy grunts and spears some egg and steak and whirls the bite in gravy before engorging his chewing yapper more.

“Can I get you some coffee?” the waitress says, props a carafe from a crooked elbow and a dangled mug from a pinky.

Jack starts and jerks his head to the new presence at the table. “Oh,” he says, “yeah, sure,” he says. He furrows a glare at Jimmy once more and eyes back up to the waitress. “So, uh,” he says, checks her tag, “Lizzie,” he says, “what’s good here?”

“Well,” she says, a friendly grin and side nod to Jimmy, “he’s having our house special.”

“And what is that?” Jack says, half matches her grin.

“Chicken fried steak and eggs,” she says. “We just got the secret ingredient back in stock.”