Page 61 of Reno

“Reno,” I responded. “Why?”

“Just wondering.” He peered beyond me while he chewed his food. When he was done, he met my gaze. “War vet, huh?”

“How’d you know?”

He nodded toward Reno. “He’s got a Ranger Battalion banner tattooed on his arm.” He pulled up his left shirt sleeve, exposing a faded tattoo similar to Reno’s. “He and I are brothers.”

“He’s nice, if you want to talk to him.”

He shook his head and reached for his newspaper. “I’ve got a newspaper to read.”

I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit.”

He unfolded the paper and smiled. “I’ll be here.”

I made my rounds, taking orders, topping off drinks, and delivering food to tables. As it always seemed to, time got away from me. Then, one moment, I looked up and the restaurant was nearly empty.

I glanced at Mister Ortiz’s table.

Empty.

Where the roofing crew was seated.

Empty.

The overbearing college kids who stared at my ass when I walked away.

Gone.

I glanced toward the booth where Reno was seated. He raised his empty water glass and smiled.

After clearing the tables, I shuffled to his booth and sighed. I sat down. “That was insane. We’re rarely that busy.”

“Had an interesting talk with the old man that reads the newspaper every day,” he said.

Reno had been in the restaurant enough times to recognize Mister Ortiz as a regular. Realizing it caused me to smile. “Mister Ortiz?”

“Walter,” he said. “He’s a cool old man. Vietnam Vet.”

“What did he say?”

“Not too much.” He chuckled. “Warned me of the dangers associated with doing you wrong.”

I was embarrassed and flattered at the same time. “Oh really?”

He nodded and then exhaled a long breath. “I’m not worried about doing you wrong. I’m not that kind of guy. I’m loyal, that’s not an issue. I’m not abusive, or violent. I’m respectful. It’s just.” He raised his brows and rocked his head from side-to-side. “I don’t know.”

There was something he didn’t want to say. “What?” I asked. “You’re withholding something.”

“Kind of why I came here, I think.”

“To keep something from me?”

“No,” he responded. “To talk about this.”

“This being what?”

He wrung his hands together for a moment while he looked around the restaurant. Then, our eyes met. He seemed disappointed. Or ashamed. Something.