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“Ah, so that’s why the mask,” I said. “I don’t think anyone will care. It’s slow anyway, so I doubt we’ll need the table.”

“Oh, good.” He looked back at the menu. “I don’t even know why I’m looking at this. It’s going to be pancakes,” he mumbled.

“Single or short stack?” I asked, setting the coffeepot on the table behind me and pulling out my order pad.

“Short. How big are these famous boogie buttermilk pancakes?” he asked.

I put my pad under my arm to make a plate-size circle with my hands. He cursed under his breath. “You serious?”

“It’s what we’re known for. Biggest pancakes in Minneapolis.”

He looked devastated.

“Those assholes…” he whispered.

I eyed him. “You don’t like pancakes?”

“I do. I’m just eating them against my will.”

He didn’t elaborate and the door was chiming with customers coming in, so I took his menu and left. I seated a few tables. When I came around the corner of the server station a few minutes later, Laci was dumping ice in the bin. “So? Is he weird?” she asked.

I stuck his order ticket into the window. “He lost a bet. His brothers or something.” I plunged a rag into the sanitizer to wipe the rogue coffee grounds off the counter. “He said he has to stay the whole day.”

“My cousin had to do that when his fantasy football team lost,” Laci said, putting the ice bucket down. “They made him sit in a bar from open to close. He got an hour off for every shot he took.”

I scrunched up my nose. “Really? How wasted was he?”

“WASTED,” she said. “We had to carry him out—it was eight hours earlier than close, though, so I guess he wins?”

I laughed. Then I wondered if the pancake thing was Santa Zombie Guy’s version of a shot. It would explain why he wasn’t thrilled about the size. I dropped the rag back into the bucket and went to lean over the counter to talk to the line cook. “Can you make those pancakes from the short stack I just put in a little smaller?” I asked, my voice low.

“Smaller?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

I hoped I was right, or I just cheated this guy out of half his food.

“So what are you doing tonight?” Laci asked me, scooping ice into a glass.

“Nothing,” I said, grabbing two mugs for the regulars who just sat at the bar. “You?”

“I’m working at the boutique until eight. Then I have my other waitressing thing until two a.m.”

“I don’t know how you juggle all these jobs,” I said, picking up the coffeepot.

She scoffed. “Like I have a choice? I need the money. Lykke and Loom is seasonal. I do it for the discount. What time you off?”

“I’m actually working a double,” I said. “Jen called out.”

She rolled her eyes. “She’s not sick. I hope you know that.”

“Oh, I know,” I said, setting the cups in front of the two men and pouring them coffee. “I don’t really care. I need the money.”

Laci put glasses of water on a tray. “Are you still paying that private eye?”

“I’ll pay him until he does what I hired him for,” I said.