Thirty-Three

            The Night Chicago Died

            1992

            Shattering glass filled the air as Sharon, in honeysuckle, threw Alan through the office door.        She had grabbed him by the shirt the moment he entered the back kitchen for his opening shift, and the prep cooks gasped – in Spanish – as Alan tumbled onto the manager’s office floor amid a hailstorm of broken shards.

            But Sharon was on top of him in an instant.  She snatched the blood-encrusted bat the cooks used for killing dumpster critters, held it behind her head, then swung hard at Alan’s face –

            Thawck!

            But Rodney stopped her mid-swing with his palm – “What the HELL are you doing? Do you want to go to jail?”

            “He’s STEALING from me!” she screamed.

            “But that’s no reason to go to jail!” Rodney yelled, snatching the bat from her hand.  He looked at Alan: “Is she right?  Are you stealing from us?”

            “I…I…I,” Alan croaked, as Sharon wrestled the bat from Rodney again and held it above her head – “ANSWER THE QUESTION YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”  Her face was hot and red.

            “SHARON!” Big Tim yelled.  Now, he grabbed the bat from her hands and tossed it to Cochise who, along with the rest of the cooks, had come up behind to see what all the commotion was about.  Turning back towards the office, Tim could see Alan on the floor with Sharon standing over him.  He had never seen her so angry, and Alan quickly scooted himself into the corner.

            “Miss Donovan, I think we should all calm down,” Big Tim told her.

            “He’s right, Sharon,” Rodney said.  “Take a step back and let calmer heads prevail.”

            “You are so fucking fired,” Sharon told Alan, reaching for the phone.  “I’m calling the police.”

            “Sharon, no.”  Rodney stepped in front of her and pushed down on the hook.  “Can we take a walk, please?”  She looked like she wanted to hit him with the handset.  “Sharon, put down the phone and come with me.”  He grabbed her by the arm.

            “You apparently don’t want to be a manager for long,” Sharon snapped as Rodney pulled her into the back prep line.  He motioned for the prep cooks to take five, and for the cooks themselves to go back to getting ready for the shift.  Big Tim stayed in the office with Alan.  Once everyone was gone, Rodney turned to Sharon –

            “Look, think about what you’re doing here.  Show me that ticket again.”

            “Here,” she said, pushing the fake ticket into his hands.  “I found this in the parking lot.  It looks like it was rung up, but I checked the system and there’s no record of it anywhere.  It’s worth sixty dollars.  That’s sixty dollars of my money!”

            “Just sixty, Sharon?”

            “That’s what it says on the ticket.  I’m not fuckin’ blind.”

            “That’s not what I mean,” Rodney told her.  “You found a fake ticket, a single fraudulent ticket.  Do you think this is the only one, or might there be more?”

            Sharon thought about this.

            “Think about it, Sharon.  Consider what you’re about to do.  You’re going to fire Alan because you know he stole sixty dollars.  But is that really all he stole?  Alan is a full-time server” –

            “And think about who his friends are,” Rodney added.  “And what we might know about them.”  Rodney, unlike Sharon, was obviously considering a much bigger picture.  He took a moment for this to sink in.  “We’ve all seen Patrick’s cars and Guinevere’s coats…and now we’ve seen Alan’s new pickup.  We’ve all heard stories from other servers.  Patrick’s trips to the boat and Las Vegas.  Alan and Guinevere’s fancy dinners and nights at the downtown clubs.  Are you following what I’m saying?”

            Again, Sharon thought about this.

            “And we’ve all been so focused on the cooks potentially stealing that we’ve neglected to see what’s right in front of our eyes.”  He paused before adding, “Didn’t Stan Arini tell you months ago that our food costs are high because our servers are stealing?  Servers, Sharon.  There’s more than just one person, here.”

            The two looked up when the back door opened and closed.  Laurie entered the kitchen in a coat, hat, and gloves.  She froze when she saw the broken office door, and Alan sitting on the floor with Big Tim above.  Her face shot to Rodney.

            “Laurie, could you set the restaurant up yourself?” he asked calmly.  “Alan won’t be on the floor until later.”

            “Of course,” Laurie said, disappearing into the breakroom.

            “On the floor later?” Sharon repeated.  “I’m about to throw that faggot out of my restaurant,” she said.  “There’s no way I’m letting him take another dime from me.  And we’ll fire his little friends, too…as soon as they come in to work.”

            “That’s the wrong decision,” Rodney told her.  “Think about it, Sharon.  Would you rather fire one person for stealing sixty dollars, or fire all three for more than that?  If you’re really going to call the police, then sixty dollars is barely a misdemeanor, a slap on the wrist” –

            “…But if you let things continue for just a little longer, theft over a thousand dollars becomes a felony, and we can nab all three with the support of the police.  Isn’t that what you really want?”

            Sharon’s face was still red, but she understood Rodney’s point.  Her demeanor softened slightly.  Rodney clearly had a better grasp of the situation than she did.

            “But I will tell you one thing that you’re not going to like,” he added, looking up towards Alan, who was leaning against the wall, crying.  “In order to catch the bigger fish, we have to make a deal with the smaller one.”

            Sharon recoiled – “Oh HELL no” –

            “We have to make a deal with Alan,” he cut her off.  “And we need to do it now before any of this leaks to the staff.”  He looked up to Tim –

            “Big Tim, we’re going to need your cooperation, and we’re going to need it fast…”

            *  *  *  *  *

            “I’ve got the brains, you’ve got the looks” –

            “Let’s make lots of money…”

            Later, as the rush was in full swing, Patrick came up to Alan – “Cover me?”

            “Of course,” Alan told him.

            The two bee-lined for the Max where Patrick rang – and voided – another fraudulent ticket.  But he sensed something odd with Alan.  “What’s up with you, tonight?” he asked.  “You seem a thousand miles away.”

            “I don’t feel well,” Alan made an excuse.  “I think I may be coming down with something.”

            “You should take some time off now,” Patrick said, “so you’re back on the floor for the weekend.  Better to call in sick on a slow day than on a busy one.”

            “I might just do that,” Alan said half-heartedly.  “But I’m okay for now.”

            “Need to swap places?” Patrick asked.  “I haven’t seen you ring anything in tonight.”

            “I’m good,” Alan said.  “I rang a few earlier, when you were out of the kitchen.”

            “WALKING IN, CHEESE FRY, ONE SHROOM,” Ty yelled, coming around the corner with her arm in a cast.  She had broken it when she’d slipped by a table a few days before, which had given her a pass on running any large trays for a while – lemons to lemonade.  She took Patrick’s spot at the Max.

            “I need food runners!” Rodney yelled from expo.

            “I got it,” Alan told him, coming to the window.  Rodney acted as though nothing was wrong, though when Patrick turned in his fake ticket – “Order in the bowl!” – Alan whispered to Rodney, “This one.”

            Rodney nodded at Big Tim, who took the fraudulent order, called out the food, then discreetly slipped into the back office to make a copy for Sharon.  He was careful to do so when Patrick was out of the kitchen.

              “Why’s Laurie in such a good mood tonight?” Rob Vain asked Alan, later, in the side station.

            “I don’t know,” Alan said.  “Maybe she killed a puppy or something.”

            “I wouldn’t put it past her,” Rob said, pouring Cokes.  “She does strike me as someone who kills and cooks little animals.”

            “Or small children,” Guinevere said, overhearing.  She looked at Alan.  “I just sat your section, Schnookums.”  She waited for a sexualized come-back.

            “Thanks, Gwen.”

            “Are you feeling okay?” she asked.  “Something’s off about you tonight.”

            “Patrick asked the same thing,” Alan told her, scooping ice.  “I must be under the weather if both of you noticed.  But I’m really fine.”

            She looked at him suspiciously.  “If you say so.”

            Sharon came down the stairs and purposely walked through Patrick’s section.  She discreetly made note of his two fake tables before heading up to the thirties, and doing a few table checks.  She made a circle through the dining room, then double backed to the office.

            “What’s up with Sharon?” Patrick asked, coming up to Alan.  “It’s like she’s running laps tonight, and she keeps going in back.”

            “I noticed that too,” Alan told him, thinking on his feet.  “I heard her say something about expecting a call from her sister when I opened.  Maybe it has something to do with that.”

            “Maybe,” Patrick said.

            “My Spidey sense hasn’t gone off, so I’m sure it’s nothing, Patrick.”

            “If you say so.”

            “You need me to cover you at the Max?” Patrick asked.  “I saw you just got sat.”

            “In a minute,” Alan said.

            “I’m happy that we’re so busy for a Thursday,” Patrick told him.  “I really needed to make some money tonight.”

            “Me too,” Alan said, his heart sinking in his chest –

            “Me too.”

            *  *  *  *  *

            Later, after his section was closed, Alan stood in the office with Sharon, where a piece of plastic had replaced the broken window.  The door was closed, so they could speak freely.  Per Rodney’s instruction, Alan hadn’t taken a dime, but the same hadn’t been true for Patrick, who had stolen close to $700 this shift.  Alan’s stomach felt like rocks as he saw the copies of his friend’s fake tickets fanned out on the desk, next to a calculator.

            Sharon looked up with a cigarette in hand – “We need to do this another day or two.  It takes a thousand dollars to trigger a felony, but I want to make sure that we have more than that.  I want to make sure we nail him.  We’re going to nail him good.”

            “And me?” Alan asked softly.

            “Unfortunately, we only have you on sixty dollars,” she said.  “That’s enough to fire you, but not to prosecute.  Personally, if it were up to me, I’d string you up by the balls.  But I need a conviction, and one solid felony is better than two misdemeanors, so I’ll take what I can get.”  She paused before adding –

            “You’re lucky Guinevere has been on hostess duty this last week.  I know she’s stealing, too.  If she were still on the floor, you’d be betraying two friends instead of only one.”

            “That’s a terrible thing to say,” Alan whispered.

            “But it’s the truth though,” Sharon said, gathering Patrick’s fake tickets and putting them in the safe.  She did the same with Alan’s cash payout for his own (real) tickets.

            “You’ll be fired once this is over,” she added.  “And good luck finding another waitering job in this town.”  Her eyes narrowed in anger as she twisted the knife –

            “I’ll see you tomorrow, nark.”

            *  *  *  *  *

            Friday came and went, with a similar closed-door conversation in the office – “We need one more day, Alan.”  Patrick’s documented theft was now up to $1600, but Sharon wanted a cool two grand – which meant she had to let him work on Saturday.

            By the time Saturday came, Alan was physically ill.

            *  *  *  *  *

            “Wow – I’ve got a big section tonight,” Patrick commented as he stood at the hostess stand with his coat still on.  “Five tables on a Saturday…how’d that happen?”

            “We’re down two servers, but we know you can handle it,” Rodney told him.  “You’re one of our strongest waiters, Patrick.  And we really appreciate what you do.”

            “Thanks, Rodney.  That makes me happy to hear you say that.”

            Rodney watched Patrick head towards the kitchen.  A few minutes later, Alan came into the lobby from outside.  He had been waiting in his truck to avoid talking to him.

            “Your section is next to Patrick’s,” Rodney said quietly.  “I gave you four tables, Patrick five.  Your sole job tonight is to see that Patrick takes as many tables as he can.  We’re going to have him arrested at the end of his shift.  And you’re going to help us do that.”

            “I understand,” Alan said in a whisper.

            “Here are your tickets. You know what you have to do.”

            *  *  *  *  *

            Howard Jones’ “Things Can Only Get Better” blasted from the MUZAK above the noisy server’s alley.  The shift was busy even by Saturday standards, and servers had almost no time to talk.  Drinks were poured, food was trayed and run, and a steady stream of appetizer orders came from Derek in the bar – but Alan could barely hear any of it.  The entire shift had become static in his head, and on more than one occasion, he ran to the restroom to puke.  These past three days had torn him to pieces, and he was barely holding himself together – something that Patrick noticed.

            “Why did you come in tonight?” Patrick asked in the side station.  “You’re clearly too sick to work.”

            “I need the money,” Alan admitted, a fact that was truer now than ever.  After tonight, his income would abruptly end – as would both Patrick’s and Guinevere’s.  Because he hadn’t stolen for two days, Alan had given Gwen almost all his tips in an effort to maintain the illusion of business as usual.  Thank God he had paid for his truck in cash, otherwise he’d be in serious financial straits – with the Repo man close behind.

            “WALKING IN, TWO KID TENDERS, TWO ONION RINGS!” Ty shouted as she came around the corner.

            “I need food runners, people!” Bill yelled from the expo window.

            The cook’s line looked like an assembly line as burgers were grilled, ribs were smoked, and a steady stream of golden-brown goodness came from Zevon’s fry station.  The alley air had a smoky haze when Guinevere entered the kitchen – “WE HAVE A TEN TABLE TURN, PEOPLE!”

            The ceiling went red as fry baskets hit the grease.

            “How’s your night going?” Alan asked Patrick, covering him at the Max.

            “I think I’m going to make over a thousand dollars tonight,” Patrick admitted, his attention so focused on his own fake tickets he didn’t even notice that Alan’s face was the color of ice.  “I wish I had a five-table section every day.  I could retire by the time I hit forty.”

            “Oh – do you need me to cover you at the Max?” Patrick added.

            “No,” Alan said.  “I’ve actually been using the register in the bar.  Less servers, less wait.”

            “Good idea.”

            “Any idea why the thirties smell the way they do?” Rob Vain asked, coming around the corner.  “It stinks – it smells like sweat and ass.”

            “It’s table thirty-five,” someone said.  “I think they’re making their own gravy.”

            “Deodorant should be a law.”

            “Can you imagine what they smell like in summer?”

            “WALKING IN, FRIES!  SHROOMS!”

            “I still need food runners!”

            Sharon, in shit-brown, came into the alley from the manager’s office.  She did a quick scan of the chaos in the alley, then darted through the saloon doors on her way to the bar.  Alan came back through them a moment later.  He looked like he was going to puke – “Order in the bowl!”

            “Alan can you run this to twenty-three?” Bill asked.

            Alan went to say yes, but suddenly clutched his stomach; he ran to the handwashing sink and barfed what little bile he had left in his body.  Bill shook his head – “You should go home.”

            “Alan stays until the end of his shift,” Rodney said firmly, walking past.  “If you’re really that sick, have Derek make you a bitters and soda.”

            “I’m okay,” Alan said, straightening up.  He ran the water in the sink, then splashed some on his face.  “Really, I’m fine.”

            “WALKING IN THREE CHEESE FRIES, ONE KID TENDER, ONE ARTICHOKE, TWO SHROOM, AND ONE KOOKIE MONSTER!” Patrick shouted.  He raced around the corner with a large tray under his arm and a handful of new tickets.  Seeing Alan, he nodded towards the Max – Cover me?

            Alan did as he was told.

            Sharon watched from a distance as Patrick rang in four new orders, two of them fake.  Once he was finished, he turned in his salads and apps, then dashed towards the Coke machine to fill a tray of soft drinks.

            And Alan was fighting back tears…

            *  *  *  *  *

            Hours later, after the rush subsided, Alan stood alone on the dining room stairs and watched Patrick drop his last check at his tables.  A police car had parked in front of the restaurant, but its lights weren’t flashing as the officers sat and waited for their cue.  For some reason, Rodney had yet to cut Guinevere, and she was standing at the hostess desk, looking queasy herself.  Her face had lost color when Alan came up to her, starting to cry – “Schnookums, I’ve done something terri” –

            He stopped midsentence on seeing that her water had broken.

            “Gwen!” he shouted, taking her hand.  “Is it time?”

            “I think so,” she said.  “I’m having contractions.”

            “Hold on – I’ll get your coat!”

            As officers entered Checker’s, Alan raced to the back and knocked frantically on the office door.  Sharon answered, he threw his tickets and cash at her, then muttered something incomprehensible as he grabbed Gwen’s fur and his own leather jacket from the employee breakroom.  He ran to the lobby where Guinevere was waiting at the door, wrapped her coat around her, then told her to wait as he got his truck.  Five minutes later, he was helping her into the passenger seat … while at the same moment, Patrick – in handcuffs – was being placed in back of the squad car.

            As Patrick watched from the back of the cruiser, Alan rushed Gwen to the hospital…

Next Chapter: Things Can Only Get Better