RITA'S STEAKHOUSE

[RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: DINING ROOM - NIGHT]

The stale air of the dining room is filled with the aroma of charred meat and fry oil. The sounds of nearby traffic bleed through the poorly insulated walls, pushing past the sun-faded décor, and adding a consistent static to the otherwise silent room. Behind the trebly country-western music playing from the vintage speakers in the ceiling is the cadence of the kitchen pouring out from the small space.

A vote would have to be taken on which of these soundscapes was the most annoying.

Sitting alone at a table is a PATRON in his mid-forties. His splotched coveralls are faded and tarnished with stains of past and present. His dirt-soiled face hangs with disappointment as he watches the young WAITER approach with his food.

PATRON: (flabbergasted) Oh, no. Ya'can not be serious righ'now.

CLANK.

Startled by the man's sudden outburst, the plate slips from the teenager's poorly gripped fingers, dropping onto the graffiti chiseled table.

WAITER: (flustered) I'm sorry, sir. My hands are wet.

PATRON: This ain't even what I ordered, boy.

The kid pauses for a moment to regroup, but it does little to help him. Nothing short of taking this man to a better steakhouse was going to make this better for either party.

WAITER: Y-yes it is, sir. You're the only person in here, so it had to be what you ordered.

PATRON: This-- THIS (pointing his fork at his plate) is the eight-ounce sirloin?

WAITER: (unsure of himself) Um, it should be. I mean, yes-- yes it is.

PATRON: Alright then, y'all gotta way'ta weigh it back there? There ain't no damn way that this is'uh eight-ounce steak, now. I'm not paying seventeen damn dollars for you to--

MANAGER: (calling out) Excuse me, is there a problem?

The MANAGER, a stocky man in his mid-forties, approaches the table. The Patron whips around his seat to look at the person he will now be directing his anger towards.

PATRON: Ya'damn right there is. This ain't what I ordered. This ain't even half'uh what I ordered.

To further prove his point, the man shoves his fork into his-- admittedly smaller than advertised-- steak. With a quick flick, he dramatically flips it end over end as if to show the manager that there wasn't another one underneath it to make up for the small size.

His best cook no longer worked there due to poor business practices on his part. So he had a new line cook that had no idea what he was doing. That wasn't at all an eight-ounce steak, but he wasn't going to admit that to him.

This is Rita's.

MANAGER: (gleefully) I see you got the eight-ounce.

PATRON: (fuming with anger) On what fuckin' planet does this weight eight fuckin' ounces? Are we seriously gonna have to get a damn scale in here for ya' fuckin' morons? Come on, now! I have been comin' here off and on all year, and I ain't never had y'all fuck me like this.

Despite the growing fury within the man, the Manager simply smiled, doing his absolute best to ignore his rude statements. Those words may have emotionally affected him two years ago. Or really, any time before he became the manager here. But this customer's reaction to his entrée is something that one grows to expect at Rita's.

Or at any restaurant with fewer customers than their review ranking.

That might be an exaggeration, but not an extreme one.

Rita's wasn't known to be the best place in town, and those that knew why steered clear of the place. Though, every now and then you get a guy like this one. His high hopes aren't unwarranted, as the few times that he had attended Rita's, ta great cook was working Now that he was gone, the place was back to its normal menu of disappointment.

PATRON: (exasperated) Ya'know what, asshole? Just feed this to someone else. Oh, wait!

Almost in a twirl, he motions around to an empty restaurant. A small display of agility that normally wouldn't be associated with someone of his stature.

PATRON: (continuing) Thaaaat's right. There AIN'T no one else here. I wonder fuckin' why.

With a loud huff, he storms out of the small steakhouse, and (if one were to guess) probably to the nearest fast-food restaurant. The Manager picks up one of the home-fried potatoes from the plate and tosses it into his mouth. With a grimace, he chokes it back.

Yeah, the food isn't the same with Gary gone.

WAITER: (laughing) I don't get this place. How do we stay open? Whatever you got going, I want in.

The Manager claps his hand on the waiter's back.

MANAGER: Just steaks kid. Just steaks. Now go ahead and do your closing duties. You're cut.

The kid nods to his superior, immediately removing his apron, and tossing it onto the man's deserted meal.

[RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: KITCHEN - MOMENTS LATER]

The doors to the small kitchen sway open as the Manager bursts through them. Upon his entry, all of the cooks turn their faces towards their stations, never once looking at their boss as he moves past them. And without as much of a glance towards his employees, he exits through the back door.

[RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: BACKLOT - CONTINUOUS]

SLAM!

The heavy steel door closes behind him as he steps out into the breezy night. He swiftly turns to the door, shifting a deadbolt to the locked position. As strange as it was to everyone that there was an ability to lock the restaurant's back door from the outside, not a single employee that didn't already know why asked any questions.

Like inside the steakhouse, the backlot was also filled with the echoing static of the nearby highway. The weathered wood fence did very little to stop the sound, even though the sound was the reason that they gave the zoning committee as to why they needed fences that neared twelve feet tall and surrounded their entire lot. 

He lifts his wrist, checking the time.

10:45 PM

ERRRNTTTTT.

A loud buzzer-like noise erupts from a metal box attached to the side of the building, accompanied by a strobing red light. Without hesitation, the Manager pushes the button and begins walking across the lot towards a storage building in the back. Like clockwork, as the Manager approaches the door, it gently creaks open, allowing entry into the dubious space.

[RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: STORAGE BUILDING - CONTINUOUS]

The warm halogen lights beamed down from the ceiling, washing the room out in a yellow hue. KERRY, a heavyset man in his fifties, hunches over a table that is entirely covered in five-dollar bills. He glances up to greet the Manager as he walks in.

KERRY: How ya doin', boss?

MANAGER: About the same. Where are we sitting on this order?

KERRY: Bout the same as well. It's doin' the same damn thing as it was this mornin' actually. I don't know how we are gonna catch up.

Spread across the table are thousands of five-dollar bills. With a closer look, it's easy to see the ink is faded and frayed, making the counterfeit currency, not at all believable.

MANAGER: (frustrated) Well, damn it, Kerry, we have to get this out by tomorrow morning. We can not be late again.

Kerry shakes his head, turning his attention back to the task he is being scolded about.

To answer the young Waiter's question from earlier about how this place has managed to remain open-- this was how. Rita's Steakhouse was nothing more than a coverup for a counterfeit money operation. An operation that had been operating for nearly thirty years. The owners had developed a simple process to keep themselves in the shadows. Number one: never make anything higher than a five-dollar bill. And two: you never wash the money in the same town you press it in.

If they were to have stuck to those two rules as instructed, tonight wouldn't have had to happen.

MANAGER: Where is it?

Kerry doesn't speak, he just lifts his eyes, pointing them to a back door. The Manager nods.

[RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: BEHIND THE STORAGE SHED - A FEW MOMENTS LATER]

The clouds glide through the sky, relieving themselves of their diffusion duties, and allowing the pale light of the moon to beam down upon the Manager as he stands above a tarp-wrapped corpse. With a sigh, he squats down, preparing himself for the grizzly sight he is undoubtedly about to see. Delicately, he pulls the tarp to the side, revealing the swollen distorted face of what was once an attractive young man. Swollen with blood, his cheeks protrude out, meeting his broken brow, covering his eyes. Lacerations scatter his face, the tattered flesh of stringy muscle escaping from underneath.

MANAGER: Gary, you fucking idiot. Why.

GARY: (gurgled and breathy) Uhhhh.

The startled Manager stands up quickly, tossing the tarp back over Gary's bloody face.

[RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: STORAGE SHED - CONTINUOUS]

THWACK!

The Manager's hands collide with the metal table, knocking a stack of the shoddily printed money into the air.

MANAGER: You didn't fucking kill him? WHAT THE FUCK, KERRY?

Kerry stops in the middle of a printing process, lifting his eyes to his employer.

KERRY: (defeated) I'm sorry! I just couldn't do it.

MANAGER: ...I can't fucking believe this.

KERRY: Why don't you just do it? Why do I gotta be the one that hasta do everything 'round here?

MANAGER: Excuse me?

Kerry clears his throat, changing his approach.

KERRY: Look, I'm jus'sayin'. You could do it just as much as I could.

MANAGER: No. Because you couldn't even kill him like you were supposed to.

Kerry breathes in deeply through his mouth and exhales slowly through his nose. A technique his divorce attorney taught him during heated custody hearings.

The Manager notices, sympathizing with his oldest friend.

MANAGER: (reasoning) I can't do it, man. I can't kill someone. And I damn sure can't kill someone I know.

KERRY: Me either. It jus' ain't me. I managed to do the first part...

MANAGER: I know, I know. Look, I'll take care of it somehow, okay?

KERRY: Ya sure? I don't wanna leave you hangin' on this like before.

MANAGER: No, you did what you could. I'll take care of it before Aaron calls asking about it. That's the last thing we need right now.

[NOVAK'S RIDGE: LARGE SAND DUNE - LATER ON THAT NIGHT]

DING... DING... DING... DING...

The annoying melody of the ajar car door rings throughout the vast empty desert. The clouds from earlier have long since gone, leaving the wintry night sky twinkling with the light of onlooking stars. Parked on top of a tall dune is Kerry's car. A compromise was made since he refused to complete the initial task given to him. The golden light of the trunk shines out onto the dune, reflecting off of the glossy blue tarp.

It gently moves, the plastic rustling against the skin of the man bound beneath it. The manager reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, revealing a small handgun. With the delicacy of his grip, it's clear that he hasn't had to hold a firearm often in his life. He gingerly cocks the hammer back on the pistol.

MANAGER: Fuck-- you dumb son of a bitch.

He throws his hands to the top of the crown of his head, resting the weapon upon his wind disheveled hair. Just like his more emotional colleague, he too did not want to kill Gary, as he was a fantastic employee. Gary was one of the few that was capable of working on both sides of the business. The elaborate front that is the 'should be failing' steakhouse, and the successful printing press. Gary was by far the best cook they had, and what little clientele they did have, usually returned for him.

But that was before he nearly destroyed the press business.

Disobeying the rules set forth by the owners of the business, Gary decided to sneak in after-hours and make his batch of money. Ten thousand dollars worth of one hundred dollar bills to be exact. And as one would probably expect him to do, he also broke the other rule of never washing the money within the city it was printed. 'Washing Money' is a slang term for laundering. To keep it simple, the printer must always have a way to enter counterfeit money into a natural form of circulation without it being tied to the printer. This was something Gary had neglected to do. And before anyone knew it, word had spread through the sewers of the city-- Gary was now being watched.

So he had to go.

He quickly yanks the gun down from on top of his head, pointing it at the squirming man within the tarp.

MANAGER: I wish things had turned out differently, kid. I really do.

POW!!!

His eyes immediately snap closed in an attempt to shield himself from the horrors that will plague his subconscious for the rest of his life.