David Alan Dedin
The Leader of the Pack
Twenty-Three
The Leader of the Pack
1991
“You okay?” Guinevere asked Alan the day after Halloween, as he climbed out of his truck in the server’s parking lot, locking the door behind him. A cold November wind rustled the crispy leaves in the nearby trees around them, when he came up to her. He was wearing his leather jacket and sunglasses. She was wearing her fur coat and sunglasses. The two came together beneath a sky the color of Reynolds Wrap, and Alan all but collapsed onto her shoulders, sobbing in shame – Oh, Gwen…I’m such a failure.
His Schnookums brought him in close.
The two remained interlocked as more servers pulled up and parked, with drivers who also looked as though they’d had very rough nights. A few minutes passed. Patrick’s Eldorado appeared, and took its space in the lot. The tall blonde waiter got out of his car, but hesitated on seeing Gwen and Alan together, allowing them this moment.
Once it was finished, the trio walked towards Checker’s in silence.
This shift was going to suck.
* * * * *
Something was very wrong in the restaurant tonight.
Natalie’s eyes were shiny behind the desk, and she could barely look up when the three came into the lobby. The dining room had its normal amount of people for this time Friday, and the hostess was clearly going through motions as she feigned a smile and pretended to be happy while greeting and seating arriving guests.
The trio checked their sections, grabbed their tickets, and entered the kitchen to hang their coats in back. But the alley was far quieter than it should have been. The only audible voices were those that were necessary to keep the restaurant running – Walking in, one fry. Order in the bowl. Will someone run this food, please. – and even those lacked the normal back house volume, with no humorous banter whatsoever.
Once the majority of the waitstaff had arrived, Sharon, in grey, nodded for Bill to call the alley-rally. Servers gathered with the enthusiasm of an unemployment line. Rodney briefly cut the MUZAK, so Sharon could be heard clearly. Big Tim made sure the cooks were listening.
Her voice was nearly inaudible –
“As all of you know…last night was Halloween…and there were many drunk drivers on the road.”
Alan’s heart fell into his stomach.
“Cheryl Bennish was killed last night.”
Gasps…
“From my understanding, she was traveling on War Memorial sometime after midnight,” Sharon went on. “She stopped at a light, but a drunk driver rear-ended her car and pushed it into the intersection. Her car was hit again, on the driver’s side…and then” –
Tears welled up in her eyes.
She cleared her throat.
“…and then it was thrown into a ditch, where it caught fire.”
More gasps.
Jackie covered her mouth. “You mean she…burned to death?”
Sharon shook her head. “The driver who sideswiped her was apparently speeding, so the police are certain that she was killed on impact. I spoke to the family this afternoon. They’re confident that Cheryl didn’t suffer.”
Or at least that’s what they’re telling themselves…
“I don’t know any more than that,” Sharon said, her voice a little louder now. “It’s obviously too soon, and things are fresh in our minds. I know that many of you knew Cheryl outside of work, so if you need a few minutes – or, if you need to leave – please see me after we’re done here. When the information becomes available, I’ll post arrangements by the schedule.”
The grills sizzled in the silence.
“The restaurant will send flowers to the family, but Laurie’s started a collection anyway… maybe to make a donation in Cheryl’s name. We also have a card to sign. Both are in the office.”
Big Tim quietly placed an order in the window.
“But we still have a restaurant to run,” Sharon continued. “So, take a moment if you need to…but let Natalie know when you’re ready to be seated.” She hesitated as though wanting to say something else but stopped. “That’s all.”
Her heels quickly retreated into the office.
Rodney appeared with a copy of the Checker’s training manual. “I’d like everyone to review the alcohol serving standards tonight. I’ve left copies of this by both Max’s in the kitchen, and in the bar.”
“I need a food runner,” Bill called somberly.
The MUZAK returned. Its chipper 80s song seemed both appropriate and inappropriate for the mood – “Ain’t nuthin’ gonna’ break my stride…”
The weekend had begun.
* * * * *
“Cover me?” Patrick asked, as he came up to Gwen at the Max.
“Cover you for what?” Laurie asked, turning around to face him. Patrick jumped in surprise. He could never say it out loud of course, but Guinevere’s pregnancy – and its resulting weight gain – had caused both her and Laurie to share certain similarities from…behind.
He thought on his feet.
“Cover me while I step off the floor for a moment. I don’t know, Laurie…this whole Cheryl thing is just really starting to hit me.”
Her face softened. “You need to take a minute?”
“Well, yes. Err, I mean no. I thought I did, but I think I’m okay now. Just talking to you seems to help.”
Ever the opportunist, Laurie asked, “Would you like to donate to Cheryl’s memorial fund? We’re collecting money for the Peoria County Animal Shelter.” She produced the office collection envelope, which, for some reason, was now in her apron.
“Of course.” Patrick fished for his wallet, puzzled. “The animal shelter? Shouldn’t we donate to AA or something? I know that Cheryl was proud of her recovery…doesn’t something to do with alcoholism make more sense? I mean, considering the circumstances?”
“I chose the charity myself,” she said flatly.
Patrick opened his wallet. It was empty, less a few gambling receipts from the boat, following Derek’s party. What cash he had left had all gone towards Alan’s bail.
“Tell you what – I’ll get you after my shift.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” Laurie said, heading for expo.
“CORNER!” Alan appeared from the dining room and dropped off a tray of pre-bus at the dishwasher. He noticed Patrick watching him. “Need me to cover?” Patrick nodded.
“So, you owe me three hundred dollars,” Patrick told him at the Max. “That was a phone call I did not appreciate.”
“I’ll have it by the end of the shift,” Alan said, sheepishly. “I’ve actually got a six-table section tonight. Jackie had to go home early.”
“How’d you get six tables?”
“Luck of the draw,” Alan said. “Or, luck of the drawl, to be more specific.”
The two looked up when Eugene with an E sauntered up to the Coke machine. His entire back and shoulders moved when shoveling ice into glasses, as though pitch-forking hay.
“I’m assuming he’s next to you?” Patrick asked Alan.
“Unfortunately. He can barely handle his own customers, let alone Jackie’s.”
“How about if you give me a table? It will help add to my sales.”
“Sure – take sixty-three for the rest of the night. It’s a six-top.”
“Thanks.”
“WE NEED FOOD RUNNERS, PEOPLE!” Laurie’s ear-piercing shrill sliced through the alley like a car with a bad power steering pump. Servers groaned with hangovers. Marty slammed a shot when no one was looking. The saloon doors burst open when Kristen’s hair – in a high, side ponytail with a neon-green scrunchie – bounced into the kitchen like Tigger the Tiger.
“I LOVE being a cocktail waitress!” she chirped, turning in an order for apps. Kristen was wearing a pink satin jacket with her apron over the top, and her legs below her skirt were red from the night’s cold air. “I can’t believe that Cheryl was a no-show tonight!”
Bill whispered into her ear.
“Oh – that’s sad.” Kristen made a frowny-face to all who were watching, then quickly turned back to Bill. “So, can I have her shifts from now on?”
“Run THIS to the bar,” Laurie growled, shoving two burgers into Kristen’s chest.
“Sha-na-na-na, life goes on,” Rob Vain whispered to Patrick.
Bluggggeh! – one of the Bradley’s puked into the handwashing sink. His entire body spasmed in the process, as though passing a kidney stone. He paused, clutched the metal basin with shaky white knuckles, then threw up again.
Bluggggeh!
Goldenschläger-scented driblets hung from his lips like unset gelatin.
“I NEED EVERY SERVER WHO WENT TO DEREK’S PARTY LAST NIGHT AT THE TO-GO STATION, NOW!” Rodney yelled, coming out of the cook’s line with a white apron over his shirt, tie, and vest. He slammed two huge platters of steaming, gooey cheese fries onto the counter, then followed with baskets of hot, greasy onion rings – and a Lexan of ranch taken straight from the cooler.
He snapped his finger and pointed with a towel draped over his wrist –
“FATTY FOODS” – half the waitstaff rushed forward – “WILL SLOW THE ABSORPTION OF ALCOHOL.” Rodney stepped aside as green-skinned servers attacked the free appetizers like lions on a gazelle. Patrick watched from the Max as Sharon appeared at Rodney’s side – “Rodney, food costs?”
“Would you rather comp a few cheap apps or would you prefer that your staff serve customers with the dry-heaves?” he asked Sharon coldly. She thought about this.
“NO ONE,” she shouted, staring directly at Patrick, “LEAVES EARLY TONIGHT!”
“But Jackie got to leave early!” Marty objected from the bar window.
“I’ll stay late, Sharon,” Laurie said smugly as she passed with a tray of food.
“What? You let the stoner go home early but not the fuckin’ drunks?” Marty added. His voice sounded more sad than angry.
Turning in a ticket, Patrick stopped Alan when Bill followed Sharon into the bar. She looked furious. “Hold up a second,” Patrick said.
“What’s up?” Alan asked, chewing as he garnished a tray for the forties.
“Something’s not right,” Patrick whispered.
“Ya’ think?” Alan asked. “Weren’t Marty and Cheryl pretty good friends?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“What then?”
“Follow me.” Patrick grabbed a small order when Big Tim noticed him lingering. Alan hoisted his own oval tray, and the two shot down the alley – “CORNER!” Once in the dining room, they paused at the middle stairs.
The noise from the rush helped mask their conversation.
* * * * *
“There’s something different about Sharon tonight,” Patrick said. “Something’s wrong.”
“How so?” Alan adjusted the weight of the tray above his shoulder. His entire body ached this shift, though he knew it was more mental than physical. “The whole restaurant’s in a funk tonight. Nobody wants to be here.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Patrick said. “Sharon’s changed. Her demeanor is different.”
“Again, how so?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. But there was something about the way she talked to Rodney … and then the way she looked at me.”
“Is that twenty-one?” Rob Vain asked, coming up. He nodded towards Patrick’s small order. “Two chicken san’s?”
Patrick glanced at the food in his hands. He hadn’t even bothered to see where it was going. “Err…yes. You want it?”
“Yes.”
“Here you go.”
“As much as I enjoy watching my Schnookums flex his muscles,” Guinevere joked as Rob left with his order, “I’d prefer that he delivered my food instead. At least before it gets cold.” The two watched her come up from the lower forties.
“Shit – sorry,” Alan said.
“It’s okay, but I definitely don’t want a problem at that table,” Gwen told him. She joined Patrick on the stairs as Alan ran her order. Patrick knew what she meant, though – “Is that table in play?”
“Seventy-five dollars in my pocket,” she said, smiling.
“Gwen, I think you need to ring it in for real.”
She scoffed.
“Gwen, I’m serious.”
“So am I,” she said. “I need to go shopping for designer baby clothes.”
Alan returned with an empty tray. “They need another round of drinks,” he told Gwen.
“Make that eighty-five dollars in my pocket,” Gwen told Patrick.
“Guys, we need to ring in all of our fake tables…now,” he told Gwen and Alan. With Alan and Patrick above her, Guinevere could see Sharon’s heels suddenly between them, approaching from behind. Gwen’s eyes widened on realizing Patrick was serious.
“Guinevere, listen to me,” Patrick told her. “Stop what you’re doing and go ring” –
“HOW ARE YOU HOLDING UP, SHARON?” Gwen cut him off, alerting the two to the manager’s presence. The three looked up together.
“Guinevere, I need to see forty-three’s ticket,” Sharon said firmly.
“Sure,” Gwen said, thinking on her feet. She reached for her apron, but suddenly grabbed her baby bump in pain. “Oh my…mmmph!” She covered her mouth in feigned-nausea. Pushing Sharon aside, she RAN towards the customer restrooms.
“HEY!” Ty shouted, nearly dropping a tray as Gwen passed. “Watch where you’re going!”
“God, that’s been happening a lot,” Patrick muttered, making sure Sharon heard.
“What were you saying, Sharon?” Alan asked.
The manager shot them daggers. “Tell your friend to see me when she’s finished.”
“Will do,” Patrick told her. “But she’ll need a couple minutes.”
Sharon pushed passed them in disgust.
She knows that we’re stealing…
“Don’t panic,” Patrick told Alan as Sharon made a round through the dining room. They observed her stopping at tables smiling, but they could tell her eyes were really on them.
“This isn’t as bad as the bathroom ceiling,” Patrick added.
“But it’s still bad,” Alan said nervously.
“Yes,” Patrick finally admitted –
“It’s bad.”
* * * * *
“Bill, the Max isn’t working!” Ty yelled, tapping on the screen at the register near expo. With Big Tim watching from behind, the young manager turned around to face the new computer terminal. Its amber CRT was flickering with gibberish and its printer held Ty’s ticket in a death-grip, refusing to let go.
“What did you do to it?” Bill asked, taking her place.
“I didn’t do anything!” Ty insisted. “I just went to close out my ticket, and this happened.”
The two watched in confusion as the screen cycled through menu after menu, like WOPR from Wargames, playing nuclear tic-tac-toe. “I think it’s broken,” Ty told him.
“It can’t be broken,” Bill insisted. “It was only installed a month ago.”
“Well, fix it. My table needs their check.”
“Close it out at the other terminal,” Bill told her.
“Seriously?” Ty gestured towards the second Max down the alley, where a line of impatient servers stood behind Eugene with an E. He was entering a two-top, which could take decades. Bill noticed that the bar’s Max was just as busy with Alan, Patrick, and Kristen, behind the saloon doors.
“FIX IT!” Ty pleaded.
“Gimmie a second,” Bill said, reaching for the Maximillian’s telephone-book-sized user manual. He opened the table of contents, then flipped to page 195 for the troubleshooting chapter. He skimmed twenty pages before setting the binder down in frustration. Raising his hand, he HIT the new register as though it were an old Zenith television – SLAP!
BZZZZZZT!
Ty cried when the screen went red:
WARNING
AN ERROR HAS OCCURRED!
DUMPING SCREEN CONTENTS TO PRINTER
Shaking like a washing machine, the Max now inhaled Ty’s ticket. Its printer screamed like a circular saw on plywood, sending Bill into a frantic tug-o-war with the hard-copy. But his efforts were too late. The paper had been reduced into an ugly, ink-smeared accordion by the time he yanked it free. Tears welled up in the butch server’s eyes when Bill passed the jagged ticket back to her –
“Just circle the total. The table will never notice.”
“GOD DAMMIT,” Guinevere yelled from down the alley. “WHO keeps leaving their drinks by the Max?”
All eyes shot her direction as Gwen took Eugene’s place at the far register. She held up a full iced tea, then made a point of grabbing a stray lemon wedge that had clearly fallen from its rim. “Is this YOURS?” she asked Eugene.
“Huh?” the cowpoke asked, clueless, looking towards the tray of drinks he’d left near the Max while running his order to the bowl. Two Sprites, one root beer, and – Well, golly. I must have carried the iced tea over to the register, and then forgotten about the dang thing.
“The Max is broken,” Bill told Sharon, who suddenly appeared through the saloon doors. He gestured towards the unusable computer, where the screen now displayed an ominous diagnostic pattern. “I don’t have time to fix it.”
“And I do?” Sharon seethed.
“Here’s forty-three.” Gwen came up to Sharon, holding her tummy as she turned in another ticket. She offered her manager the damaged hard-copy. Its top portion was mangled, obscuring the order’s time stamp. “Sorry, but it got caught in the printer earlier.” Gwen nodded towards the malfunctioning register. Sharon glanced at the ticket, then towards the broken Max. She sighed angrily, then waved Guinevere away – “You’re fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes – run some food.”
“Of course.”
“WE HAVE A SEVEN TABLE TURN!” Natalie shouted, rounding the corner from the dining room. “AND THE WAIT IS NINETY MINUTES!”
More servers gathered at the alley’s remaining Maximillian terminal. Patrick carried a tray passed Eugene and Laurie, as Duran Duran sang Hungry Like the Wolf to the busy servers’ alley. Rodney’s appetizers now looked like picked-over carcasses while a second Bradley Boy filled the handwashing sink with cheese fries, onion rings, and tequila – Bluggggeh! Burgers sizzled, fry baskets hit the grease, and the Work Release cooks got down to business, as the weekend charged forward, Big Tim at its helm.
And, for the first time in months, all of the trio’s tickets were legit.
* * * * *
“HERE’S TO CHERYL!” the Bradley Boys yelled in a chorus, clinking their shot glasses together as Marty joined them from behind the bar. The restaurant had closed, but as Sharon promised earlier, the entire staff had been made to stay to the bitter end – as Laurie, like a bean counter, checked everyone’s sidework on a clipboard.
The time was close to midnight when the door to the manager’s office opened. Guinevere stepped out after turning in her tickets, allowing Alan and Patrick a brief glimpse of Sharon at the desk behind. The manager looked as though playing solitaire. EVERY order from the night was laid out in columns across her desk, with a pile for each server – each ticket in numerical order.
The door closed behind when Gwen approached the two.
“What did she say?” Patrick whispered, as the three grabbed their coats. He nodded politely to the cooks on their way out. Zevon raised his Sprite to Alan –
Need a swig?
“Nothing suspicious,” Gwen said, “though she made sure that I had all the tickets that I was issued at the start of my shift. She counted them and everything.”
“Same here,” Alan said.
“Same with me,” Patrick told him.
“So, is it over?” Alan asked, faking a smile to Laurie when the three left the alley into the dining room. “Is this…it? Is this how it ends?”
“Not quite,” Patrick assured them. “But we do have to change the way we do things, going forward.”
“What do you mean?” Gwen asked, buttoning her fur.
“I have an idea,” Patrick admitted, “though I’m warning you up front that it’s not very nice.”
“You three coming to Happy Valley?” Rob Vain asked in the lobby, his voice fueled by more alcohol than just a single toast. “Everyone’s gonna’ be there. You guys should come.”
“No,” Alan told him, still reeling from Halloween. The shift’s events had been enough to distract him, but now as the hangover’s dust settled, he was starting to replay his DUI in his mind, and what those red/blue flashing lights would mean in the weeks and months to follow.
“YES,” Patrick told Rob. “We’ll be there.”
“That’s great,” Rob hiccupped. “See you there.”
Alan scoffed as Rob Vain stumbled out the door towards his car. “Seriously?” he asked Patrick. “I want to go home, take a shower, and crawl into a little ball in bed.”
“Not tonight,” Patrick said firmly. “We need to blend in, and tonight will be a very good night to do that.”
“But you hate Happy Valley,” Alan protested.
“So do I,” Gwen added.
“And SO do I,” Patrick insisted, buttoning his coat. “But we have to find out what other people are saying, and tonight would be a very good opportunity to do that. Everybody’s drinking. And loose lips sink ships.”
“Patrick,” Alan stammered. “I really don’t want to do this” –
“And it also wouldn’t hurt for us to try and blend in with everyone else. The three of us tend to isolate, and there are times when it seems like we only talk to ourselves. We have to be conscious of when we’re doing that. That in itself will make managers suspicious.”
“Patrick, listen…I get what you’re saying, but tonight’s just not the best time for me” –
“LISTEN,” Patrick grabbed Alan’s leather lapels as he spoke. “This isn’t negotiable.” The three were standing in the lobby’s vestibule now, and Patrick glanced around to ensure that no one could hear them.
“I need Checker’s,” he continued. “To pay for my house, and to do the things that I’ve grown accustomed to doing. And Gwen needs Checker’s” – he glanced at her – “to pay for her baby.”
“And you need Checker’s to do whatever it is that you’re doing with your life right now. So, suck it up! Put on a friendly face, and let’s all join the gang at Happy Valley. This is a moment to pretend that you’re just like everyone else, so…just…deal…with it.”
“Do you understand?”
Alan nodded.
“Good,” Patrick said, holding the door for the two –
“Trust me…I’m no happier about this than you are.”
* * * * *
The Happy Valley was a horrible little dive, a long, narrow Quonset-hut near Checker’s, with an interior lit almost exclusively by humming neon beer signs. A varnished plywood bar ran the length of its left side, and the right was dotted by tall, well-worn bar tables & stools, with four tired pool tables dividing the space in the middle. A Bob Segar ballad – pick one – blasted from the new CD juke box by the restrooms, as balls were cracked across worn green felt, and bartenders shoveled Kessler shots into patrons, shaking fistfuls of the evening’s tip money.
“HERE’S TO CHERYL!” the Checker’s servers yelled, toasting their fallen comrade with the cheapest call whiskey at the bar. Patrick raised his Coke at a table, while Alan raised his CC & Coke, and Guinevere did the same with her amaretto stone sour, less the booze.
Her baby kicked in protest.
“We need to make it look like the cooks are stealing,” Patrick told the trio, speaking lowly so no one could hear from the table. “It makes sense…they’re all Work Release. And no one would think twice that a felon would find a way to steal, to make money on the side.”
“How did you shut down the register?” Alan asked, finishing off his whiskey and Coke more quickly than planned. “How did you make the Max crash?”
“Lemon juice,” Patrick said frankly. “It’s acidic…it kills the computer’s motherboard. Just one squeeze into the vents, and the computer’s never the same.”
“Oh,” Gwen realized something. “So that’s why we moved the iced tea.”
“Jesus,” Alan muttered.
“Everything’s connected together,” Patrick said, looking up.
“Thank God,” Guinevere said, sipping her repulsive cocktail. “I don’t know how I’d gotten passed Sharon otherwise.” She lit an ultra-light.
“But we need to make it look like the cooks are stealing,” Patrick repeated.
“You guys having FUN?’ Rob Vain asked the trio, stumbling into their table like a drunk on St. Patrick’s Day. His hair was disheveled. He slurred his greeting like Alan did for police two nights ago, and the three looked up in comical amusement, though Alan’s demeanor had a darker tone.
“Here’s to Cheryl,” Rob slobbered to the three.
“To Cheryl.” Patrick raised a glass, kicking Alan’s boot under the table.
“To Cheryl!” the trio echoed, as Rob stumbled back to the bar. Once he was gone, Patrick’s eyes narrowed. He set his Coke down, untouched.
“Going forward,” Patrick instructed, “We have to make it look like money is going out the back door, not the front. We’ll focus on the high food-cost items, so they’ll stand out when the managers do inventory. We want them to notice that food is going missing in real time, as it happens during the shift.”
“So, we’re gonna frame the cooks?” Alan asked.
“Yes, Alan…we’re going to frame the cooks.”
“That seems unfair to Tim,” Guinevere said.
Patrick looked at her. “As unfair as what?”
“He’s not like the others,” she reminded him. “He’s nice. And he doesn’t have a record.”
“Look,” Patrick said, motioning the two in close. “It’s not as unfair as you’d think. I mean, these guys are in jail for what? Theft? Drugs? Theft and drugs? Doesn’t it make sense – that if given the chance – they’d do the same thing all over again?”
“But not Big Tim,” Gwen repeated. “He goes home by himself every night. He doesn’t live in the jail like Roger and Cochise. I understand how it makes sense to blame the cooks with felonies, but if we do that, Tim will get caught in the crossfire.”
“Guilt by association,” Alan muttered.
“And he’s really a nice guy,” Gwen added.
“Well,” Patrick admitted, “there’s nothing we can do about that.”
Silence.
Alan and Gwen stirred uncomfortably. This was a side of Patrick they’d never seen before. Sure, embezzling from Sharon had been all well and good…and definitely sure, the pranks had been fun, but what Patrick was suggesting now was totally crossing a line. A big line.
“We need to frame the cooks for stealing.” Patrick repeated himself to hammer the point, knowing that repetition was often the best way to keep the two’s attention. “It’s the only way to keep the skim going.”
More cheers erupted from the plywood bar.
“What do you guys think?” Patrick pressed. “Think you can hold it together for what needs to come next?”
One beat, two beats…Alan was the first to speak.
“Yes, I can hold myself together,” Alan said, waving for another drink. “I mean, it’s not like I have a choice.”
The two men waited for Guinevere, who had settled in her chair to think. She watched the ash grow long on her burning cigarette. I need to give these up soon.
“Schnookums, are you in?” Alan asked.
“Sure,” she finally agreed, her palm gently stroking her stomach. “It’s not like I have a choice, either.”
Here’s to Cheryl…cheers!
Patrick smiled in relief –
For once, the trio was in fucking agreement.