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Maybe I should take up yoga. A downward dog every morning might do the trick.
He glanced out the window and decided that he was hungry. And he only had one place in mind to go.
He drove to the American Grill.
He had never answered the question of why Rachel Katz still owned it. And he didn’t believe it was because it was her husband’s first business venture.
He walked in, got a table, and sat and perused the menu. The place was about three-quarters full at seven o’clock. Most of the clientele seemed to be blue collar, some with spouses, some with kids. There were a few teens wolfing down burgers and wings. On the big-screen TV was an ESPN show where the panel was talking about the upcoming Sunday of football.
Decker looked out the window at the building across the street. It was a bank. The one where Don Richards had worked. On the other side of the Grill was an apartment building. Decker knew this because he had briefly lived there when he returned to Burlington after his football career ended.
He eyed the interior of the Grill. Large model prop planes and ships and cars suspended from the ceiling. Pictures of old movie stars framed on the walls. Humorous signs dotted in between them. Dusty fake plants standing in corners. A buffet bar set up in the middle of the place. The wait staff wore white shirts and black pants.
The kitchen was through a set of double swing doors. Restrooms on the right for men and the left for women. Greeter station right at the front door. Computer stands at the back where the wait staff logged in their orders. Full bar at the very back of the restaurant where multiple TV screens were bolted to the wall. The carpet underneath was a dull green, designed not to show dirt or stains. The tables were a heavy wood. There were four-topper tables set up along the perimeter. He could smell an alchemy of fried foods, cheap beer, and sweet desserts.
It was Americana at its monotone finest.
It wasn’t all that profitable. And yet it was still in business when Katz had far more glamorous projects on which to spend her time.
Decker ordered his food, a Reuben and fries, and a Michelob to top it off. He once more almost looked around guiltily for Jamison to suddenly pop up and reprimand him.
The sandwich was good, juicy enough without being all over the place. The fries were warm and crisp. The beer tasted fine going down.
He eyed the table where he’d seen Earl Lancaster with his “friend.” He hadn’t expected his talk with Mary at the football field to have carried the day, but he was happy that they were giving it another shot.
This happy thought receded when he dwelled for a few moments on what the next few years of his former partner’s life might be like.
The brain was the most unique organ humans possessed. Decker knew that better than most. When it failed you, it was unlike any other breakdown in your body. If your heart went, so did you, six feet under. Gone but remembered, hopefully fondly, for who you had been.
But if your brain went, you were also gone, though your body lingered and became dependent on someone else to take care of it. And that would be your loved ones’ last impression of you, even though it wasn’t really you, at least not anymore.
Decker came out of these musings in time to glance up. Through the window of the door going into the kitchen, he caught a man watching him. It was just a quick look, and then the man was gone. The only thing Decker could really observe was dark hair and a pair of penetrating eyes.
Decker, the cop, was instantly intrigued. He had spent almost his entire adult life as a policeman. Reading people’s faces, separating the bad from the good, the scared from those trying to hide something. It was not a skill he could teach someone else. It really had become almost instinctual over time. It was a million little things processed together to spit out something close to a useful deduction.
And his antennae were quivering.
He slowly eased his phone out of his pocket, turned the flash off, and, while ostensibly checking his phone screen, snapped a series of pictures of the wait staff flitting around the restaurant. He recognized the waitress from the last time he was here. And trailing behind her was the young man named Daniel, who was learning the craft of being a waiter.
When he put the phone away, he glanced over at the kitchen double doors and thought he had seen someone at the window there.
Had it been the same guy watching him?
Decker motioned to the young woman who had been serving him. Daniel had gone into the kitchen.
She came over. “You want anything else?”
“No, the food was great.”
“I’ll get your bill.”
“Looks like you’re hustling tonight.”
“Yeah, it gets a little crazy sometimes.”
“Been working here long?”
“About a year.”
