Part 8 (1/2)

”Unless you're ready for lunch. We can accommodate you if that's the case. Today's special is meat loaf. It might take a while since we don't have the oven going yet, but we can serve it up for you along with mashed potatoes and green beans. If you don't mind waiting, that is.”

”I don't want to . . .” He exchanged looks with his companions. ”That is, we aren't actually looking to . . . We just want to snap some pictures and get a couple good quotes to go with them. We already had our coffee and m.u.f.fins over at Caf-Fiends. It's not like we actually want to eat here.”

It wasn't Inez's fault that she was standing there slack-jawed and unsure how to handle things, but it was my responsibility to set an example. I s.n.a.t.c.hed the menus out of her hands and tapped them into a neat pile against the rolltop desk. ”Thanks for stopping in,” I told the young man.

”You mean-”

”I mean, it's like that sign you see in so many places. 'No s.h.i.+rt, No shoes, No service.' Only here, we've added 'No loitering.' If you're not a customer, you're loitering.”

”So you're going to blackmail us into buying the crummy food in this place?”

For all I knew, the food at Sophie's was, indeed, crummy. In fact, I suspected crummy was putting it kindly. That didn't excuse this guy for dissing the Terminal.

I backstepped him and his companions toward the door. ”Thanks for stopping by,” I said again. ”We hope to see you another time.”

They got the message and left.

I turned from the door and found Inez grinning from ear to ear. ”That was really cool.”

”It was really rude is what it was.”

”Not on your part.”

My smile matched hers. ”No, not on my part.”

”You think we're going to have to put up with that nonsense all day?”

I didn't think it, I was sure of it. I also knew one way we could at least reduce the possibility.

I called a quick staff meeting and told George, Denice, and Inez what I had in mind. Within minutes, Inez and Denice were giving the restaurant a quick cleaning, concentrating on the little jut-out area where Jack had been killed. Once the fingerprint powder was all cleaned up, customers could speculate all they wanted about where Jack had been killed. While they were at it, I had the two waitresses get rid of a couple dozen lace doilies, three cobwebby teddy bears that were so high up on a shelf I don't know how anybody ever saw them, and a giant china pitcher of fabric flowers that made it impossible for anybody standing in the doorway between the waiting room and the restaurant to see the people at the table in the far corner against the windows.

Three people came in, one at a time, while they were working, and the girls took turns taking care of them. I noticed that the two Inez helped turned right around and walked out again and when they did, I gave her the thumbs-up. She'd apparently been paying attention when I sent that photographer on his way earlier; she knew how to identify the gawkers and tell them (politely, I hoped) that they weren't welcome if they weren't going to order.

The third was apparently a regular and Denice got him a cup of coffee and pulled out her order pad. ”Pancakes, bacon, and rye toast?”

The man nodded.

I just happened to be standing close by. ”I'll put the order in for you,” I offered and headed back to the kitchen. Of course I had an ulterior motive. In addition to seeing how the orders were handled and how George prepared the food, it gave me a chance to finish the conversation we'd started earlier.

He looked up at me over the pancake batter he was whipping. ”You didn't come back here just to watch me work.”

”No, I didn't,” I said. ”But I do need to get used to the routine around here. It's important for me to know how orders are prepared.”

”Not much to makin' pancakes.” He scooped up batter and dropped it on the hot griddle, waited for precisely the right moment, then flipped the four hotcakes. He already had bacon sizzling on the grill and he turned each strip over.

”I knew Lou would be here,” George commented. ”Always here this time of day. Always orders the same thing.”

”So that's all taken care of, and we don't need to talk about Lou. But we still need to talk about Jack Lancer,” I said.

George shot a look at me over his shoulder. ”Do we?”

I shrugged like it was no big deal when actually, I was beginning to think it was. ”I hate being left out of the loop. And I am the boss.”

”Only until Sophie comes back.”

I couldn't agree more and I nodded to prove it. ”Only until Sophie comes back. But right here, right now, I'm in charge. And today's going to be a crazy day what with the media circus and all. Which means if I don't know what's going on-”

”Nothing. Honest.” George slipped the pancakes and bacon onto a plate and rang a bell to tell Denice to come pick up the food. After she was gone, he turned to me.

”It happened a long time ago,” he said. ”Before I came to work for Sophie.”

”Denice says you've been here twelve years.”

”Nearly.” He leaned back against the counter. ”Before that, I had my own place. George's Country Diner. South of here. Over near Struthers.”

I wasn't surprised to hear George had once owned his own restaurant and now cooked for Sophie. This is a tough business, and restaurants open and close at the speed of light. Sometimes it's because a place stays hot for a while, then falls off customers' radar. Other times, it's money problems that make a restaurant close its doors. Often, people who get into the industry picture themselves meeting and greeting patrons, sipping wine in a corner, and watching the cash roll in. Long hours, staff problems, hot kitchens, and soaring food costs have a way of wiping that fantasy off the map!

”Jack Lancer, he lived over near Struthers then,” George said.

My head came up. ”You knew him from your restaurant?”

George grumbled a word I couldn't quite hear. ”Thought he was G.o.d's gift to the world. The Lance of Justice!” He spun to face the counter, his palms braced against the stainless steel. His shoulders heaved. ”He used to come into my place once in a while, and you know, that son of a gun expected a free meal every single time. Because he was some big shot TV star!”

He spun back the other way, threw out his hands, and let them drop to his sides with a slap. ”That guy's got a plum job over at a TV station and he expects free meals out of a guy who was working sixteen-hour days and barely making ends meet. Can you believe it?”

I could. I'd seen that sort of att.i.tude of ent.i.tlement-and worse-from the Hollywood crowd.

”And you know, the first time he said something about free food and how he'd spread the word around about my place and he gave me that smile of his and a big wink . . .” I got the feeling that if we weren't in the restaurant, George would have spit on the floor. ”The first time, I fell for it. I was only too happy to give him a free burger and fries. After all, he was the Lance of Justice!”

”But it happened again, right?”

”And again and again and again. And then the Lance, he'd bring his wife in and expect her to get free food, too. Or one of his girlfriends.”

The fact about the Lance's affairs jibed with what Kim had told me about his private life, so I wasn't surprised.

”I just couldn't do it. I had rent. And utilities. I had suppliers to pay. I told him that, too, and you know what the Lance did?”

”Said bad things about your food?”

”Worse than that! That no-good, lowdown sc.u.mbag had the nerve to do a piece about my restaurant. You know, one of those ex-po-ses talking about how the service was terrible and the food was rotten.”

”Was it?”

Fire in his eyes, George shot me a look and pushed away from the counter. Good thing he realized I was just playing devil's advocate because had he come at me, I wouldn't have liked to think about defending myself with nothing but the loaf of white bread on the counter nearby.

”George's Country Diner wasn't no five-star restaurant, but it was clean and the food was decent and I didn't overcharge n.o.body. Not ever.”