Lunch

My boss is Ted Polmey.

Nobody cares.

Which is exactly how he likes it.

I mean, people care—but it’s smarter if they don’t. Money helps with that. So does fear. Sprinkle in a little intimidation and most folks learn to mind their own business. It’s not like it matters if people know I work for Ted. I’m a nobody. Just a guy. When people ask what I do, I tell them I’m a burden on society.

Ted?

He’s a leader in the community.

People depend on him. He keeps the town solvent. Sure, there are rumors—illegal this, questionable that—but if civic trust is well funded, people tend to look the other way. Besides, everyone knows there’s a criminal element in their town. They just don’t want to talk about it. Ted does them the courtesy of keeping it quiet.

The fact he makes a profit is a minor detail.

Ted is the man.

Now, you might be trying to figure out where you’ve heard the name Ted Polmey before. It’s not the news. Not social media. I don’t think he even owns a smartphone. But if you were into hair metal back in the late 80s, you might remember a guy named Ted Poley—lead singer of Danger Danger. Had a couple hits. “Naughty Naughty.” “Bang Bang.”

Catchy stuff.

Got me lucky once or twice.

God, I miss Aqua Net.

Anyway—that’s not my Ted.

And whatever you do, don’t mix them up.

I watched a new guy do that once. Thought it was hilarious. Started singing in Ted’s face like he was at karaoke night. Couldn’t stop laughing.

We couldn’t believe it.

Neither could Ted.

You ever hear a man laugh so hard it echoes?

That’s what it sounded like.

Right before he had the guy’s tongue removed.

Surgical. Clean. Like the doctor was already on standby.

The guy eats through a tube now.

Some say he got off easy.

What a moron.

I asked Ted once why he didn’t just change his name. Go by Theodore. Teddy. Something like that.

He looked at me and said, “All a man’s got is his name and what comes with it. You change the name, you change everything.”

Maybe he’s right.

My name’s Gene. Nobody’s building statues over it.

But he’s the boss.

He’s got the suits, the money, the army of yes-men. Enough of them to float across the ocean if he stacked them right.

I pass a few on my way to the back of the restaurant. Big guys. Too much muscle, not enough thinking. The kind of guys who’d survive the end of the world by accident.

Ted only eats once a day. Two p.m. Drinks all day, but food? Once. No exceptions.

Somebody made him late once.

That guy’s dead.

How he died depends on who you ask. Piranhas. Pigs. Either way, he’s fertilizer now.

Accountability.

I asked Ted about the one-meal thing once. He mumbled something about metabolism and ancient man while shoveling chicken wings into his mouth like a competitive sport. He may only eat once a day, but he makes it count.

Today he’s at Pizzeria de Pizazz.

Ted owns the place.

I asked about the name once. Got told to mind my business in language that probably requires confession. Bottom line—the place makes money. That’s all that matters.

The manager goes by Carl.

He tells customers it’s Tony.

Thinks it sounds more authentic.

Guy’s from Albania.

The Italian accent isn’t happening.

I’ve told him that.

Hurts his feelings every time.

Nice guy though. Got a story.

Used to be a cab driver back home. Also used to be very popular with women. Problem was, some of those women already had husbands. One of those husbands was a detective.

Things escalated.

Carl didn’t stick around to see how it ended. Got a fare to the airport. Turned out to be Ted. They talked. Ted liked him.

Carl followed him to the States.

Now he runs the pizzeria.

Still likes women. Just checks for wedding rings first.

Growth.

Carl isn’t even his real name. Born Brahim. Changed it after watching too many movies. Big fan of Carl Weathers. Keeps Action Jackson playing in his office like it’s required viewing.

Man built his whole identity off a VHS tape.

You’ve got to respect that.

When I walk in, Carl—Tony—Brahim is setting Ted up with his usual spread. Large pepperoni and sausage pizza, ham and cheese sub with fries, chicken parm for two.

Ted eats like he’s got something to prove.

Did I mention he’s morbidly obese?

I hope he never chokes. There’s no way anyone’s getting their arms around him for the Heimlich. You’d need a machete and a prayer.

Okay. I’m done.

“Afternoon, boys.”

I give a wave. Ted’s busy inhaling pizza like someone might take it from him. Carl waves back. The bodyguards pretend I don’t exist.

That’s fine.

I wasn’t looking to make friends.

Ted wipes grease off his face with a napkin. “Gene, my boy. Right on time. Want something?”

He’s not offering me his food. If I grabbed a fry, I’d lose a finger.

There are rules.

I tell Carl I’m good. He nods and leaves.

Ted sits at the head of a table built for six. I take a seat two spots over. Close enough to show respect. Far enough to stay alive.

There’s a balance.

I brush some Parmesan off the table onto the floor without thinking. Ted watches it fall. Then looks at me.

Two minutes in and I’ve messed up.

“My bad.”

I don’t hold eye contact long. Just enough.

Another balance.

Ted tears into his sub, mayonnaise dripping down his chin. “So. Tell me about last night, Eugene.”

I hate when he calls me that.

It’s not even my name.

“What do you want to know?”

“The incident at the Escapade.”

That tells me everything. He already knows. This is just the part where I talk.

“A guy was being a jerk. Bartender asked me to handle it.”

“So you blew up his car.”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“Paint thinner.”

“From where?”

“Van in the lot.”

“Your van?”

There it is.

“No. Not my van. But I still don’t see the problem/”

“The problem,” he says, “isn’t the Maserati. It’s the van. You started something on my property using someone else’s property. Without asking.”

“I paid for it.”

He wags a finger. “You left two hundred dollars.”

“That’s paying.”

“That’s you deciding what the damage was worth.”

Of course it is.

“Was the Maserati guy known?” I ask.

“No.”

“So, again, what’s the problem?”

His hand slams the table. Wine spills. Fries hit the floor. Carl appears like magic—fresh drink, fresh basket—then disappears again.

Impressive.

Ted pushes back, stands, and moves closer. Way closer. He smells expensive.

“The problem,” he says, “isn’t the Maserati. It’s the van. You broke into one man’s property to destroy another man’s property. At my place. Without asking.”

Ah. He owns the bar.

I shrug. “Had a tab to clear.”

He laughs.

Loud. Big. Happy.

Then he punches me in the chest.

Feels like getting hit with a brick.

“You think this is funny?”

“The bartender—”

Another punch. Thigh this time. Fire shoots up my leg. I don’t move.

Can’t.

“Don’t worry about the bartender,” he says, calmer now. “You take orders from one person.”

He taps his chest.

“Me.”

“Got it.”

Mostly.

“So,” I say, because I never learn, “what do I need to do? Power wash the parking lot or—”

“Moron,” one of the guards mutters.

Ted stares at me.

Thinking.

Deciding.

Then he goes back to his seat like nothing happened.

“You owe me a job.”

There it is.

“Owe,” I say. “As in free?”

“Nothing’s free,” he says. “Some things are expensive.”

Message received.

I nod. “As long as we’re clear.”

He doesn’t like that tone.

No one ever does.

But I don’t do groveling well.

We sit in it for a second. Then he waves me off without looking.

Conversation over.

I apologize again on the way out. Don’t mean it. Doesn’t matter. He likes hearing it.

That’s enough.

I move through the tables. Couple of his guys glare at me like I insulted their mothers.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

One of them—Coates—kicks a chair into my leg.

“Loser.”

I should walk away.

I don’t.

I smack him in the back of the head. “Coates. Good to see you.”

“Up yours, Eugene.”

I stop.

“It’s Gene.”

More of them start watching.

“Loser,” he says again.

“Already used that one,” I tell him. “You’re gonna need new material or this whole thing falls apart.”

He stands. Bigger than me. On something. Probably illegal.

We square up.

Close.

Too close.

“You wanna go?” he says.

I don’t.

But here we are.

“Loser says what?”

“What?”

“Gotcha.”

He shoves me. I shove him back. He hits a table.

Chairs scrape. Guys lean in.

This is how stupid things start.

“What’s going on out there?” Ted calls.

I don’t look away from Coates.

“Nothing,” I shout back. “Ballroom dancing. We both wanted to lead.”

A pause.

Then a grunt.

That’s permission to stop.

Head Goon appears, hand on his weapon, shaking his head at me.

No fun allowed.

I hold my hands up. “I’m leaving.”

Coates fixes his suit jacket, still glaring. “Be seeing you, loser.”

“Maybe,” I say. “At least I’m not on a leash.”

I don’t wait for a response.

I walk out.

Sun hits my face. Feels good. World looks good. Like maybe today’s going to be something.

Then I remember.

I owe Ted a job.

Something about it feels off.

Too neat.

Too easy.

Too manufactured.

I step off the curb and almost get flattened by a blue Subaru with enough bumper stickers across the back to start a commune. Woman on her phone. Doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look. Just barrels through like the world’s optional.

I flip her off.

She doesn’t notice.

Figures.

Guy in a pickup honks at me. I salute him. He salutes back.

Balance.

I stand there a second.

Beautiful day.

Doesn’t feel like one.

I can feel the world shifting.

Last night was too convenient. Like the pieces were already in place before I showed up. Like I was supposed to do exactly what I did.

Like I was supposed to do exactly what I did.

Ted wants a free job.

Fine.

But I don’t like jobs where I don’t know what I’m really blowing up.

I swing onto my Harley and let it rumble under me. Sit there a second. Think it through.

It’s not like I’ve got a choice.

You only live once.

Might as well enjoy it.

Still…

If I find that Subaru again—

I might stick a banana in the tailpipe.

That came out dirtier than I meant it.