Page 12 of Caroled
The waitress, a large woman with gray hair in a bun, moved from table to table with all the determination and momentum of a battleship, never pausing for more than a moment or two. She set plates down in front of a trio of seamen and then sailed over to pause at Charles and Tenrael’s table. “What’ll it be, boys?” She held her pad and pen ready.
“Fruit cocktail,” said Charles. “Rice pudding. Jello. And a slice of apple pie.”
She didn’t even bat an eye. “A la mode?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Coffee?”
He shook his head. “No, just water, please.”
“Cold, or hot with lemon?”
“Both?”
She wrote on her pad. “Got it. And what about you?” she asked Tenrael.
“Nothing for me.”
She nodded and moved toward the kitchen.
Charles toyed with the glass ashtray and wanted cigarettes again. He eyed other customers enviously, watching their puffs of smoke rise toward the ceiling. To distract himself, he focused on Tenrael’s hands, the ring gleaming on one of his fingers. “Do you mind wearing it?” Charles asked.
“No, not temporarily. I am enjoying seeing the world like this. It is so… vibrant. So many wonderful things.”
Charles looked around and didn’t see anything wonderful. Just scuffed floors and battered furniture, stoop-shouldered people in dull clothing, and faded Christmas decorations with curling edges. Yet Tenrael was grinning like a child on a playground.
So Charles tried to view the room through fresh eyes, as if he’d never been in a dump like this before. And when he did—when he trulylooked—he noticed an elderly couple in the corner, smiling at each other like newlyweds and holding hands atop the table, a small bouquet of bright hothouse flowers wrapped in newspaper beside them. He saw sailors digging into their meals with great enthusiasm, exclaiming over how much better the food was here than aboard their ship. At another table, a dark-skinned middle-aged man in workman’s coveralls read a thick book as he sipped coffee. The Christmas lights twinkling in the window, reds and greens reflecting off the glass, made the shabby surroundings feel festive.
The waitress returned with a glass of water and a steaming mug with a slice of lemon on the side. “Food’ll be up in a minute.”
Charles glanced at her name tag. “Thank you, Bertha. Hey, do you know Abe Ferencz and Thomas Donne by any chance? I think they eat here sometimes.”
She scowled. “I don’t gossip about my customers.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. They sent us here, actually. We work for the same agency, you see, and they said maybe you could help us.”
“Help you with what? Why can’t they come here themselves?”
“Donne’s, um, laid up. Needs a little time to recover.”
The distrust left her expression, and she leaned in close and lowered her voice. “I heard something about that. Is he okay?”
“He’ll be fine.”
“Good. You know, a few years back we had trouble with a ghost. It kept breaking plates and scaring the daylights out of everyone. Two dishwashers and a cook quit because of it. But then Mr. Donne and Mr. Ferencz came and… did something. I don’t know what. But that ghost left for good.” She gestured impatiently at a nearby customer who seemed to want his bill.
“I’m glad to hear that, ma’am. I bet you hear a lot of things, working here.”
“I surely do!”
He took out one of his business cards and scrawled the St. Francis’s number on the back before pushing it toward her. “We’ll probably be in town through the beginning of January. If anything comes up that you think we should know about, please call this number and ask for me.”
Bertha tucked the card into her apron pocket, looking pleased. “I certainly will.” Then she hurried over to the other customer.
The rest of the meal was uneventful. Charles ate; Tenrael watched him eat, apparently enjoying the show. The pie was very good. Then Charles paid the bill—it came to $1.05—and left Bertha a fifty-cent tip. Why not? The Bureau could afford it.
She caught his eye as they were leaving and gave her apron pocket a conspiratorial pat.
