Unimpressed with packaged Danishes and weak complimentary coffee, O’Connor decided to grab breakfast at the diner down the street, a little place called Sancho’s. Dressing, he sniffed his shirt, wondering how long he had before he’d have to figure out laundry or buy something else to wear. His local guide, the crumpled tourist pamphlet, lacked a comprehensive list of men’s clothing stores, and he wasn’t fond of the idea of wandering around town in flip-flops, trying to find a pair of slacks, a button-down shirt and tie, and shoes of some sort.
Being a Sunday morning, and just around church time, he should have expected the Silver Spoon to be busy, but he had not expected it to be entirely packed with people. Every booth was taken, as well as most of the counter. Standing in the waiting area, scrolling through the news on his phone, he was packed shoulder to shoulder with a handful of guys at least as big as himself. It was rare enough to see his equal in physique, but to glance up and recognize that Sancho’s was full of fit men of a certain age, he realized that he might not be the only investigator called into town. There were a few dozen guys who looked like obvious undercover law enforcement, all suspiciously eyeing the civilian locals in decidedly cop-like fashion. Where they came from, he had no idea, but it was clear that they also recognized him and seemed equally perplexed at his presence. Following certain unspoken rules of law enforcement etiquette, neither the seated patrons nor the new arrival acknowledged the obvious common vocation openly. O’Connor patiently waited to be seated, even as most of the others were finishing their meals.
Designed for the average suburbanite down from the surrounding hills, seating at the lunch counter was a bit tight. Shoulder to shoulder, the beefy agents bristled for elbow room all lined up like bumpers on a used car lot. O’Connor took a seat at the very end, waiting as the ample-chested blonde waitress wiped down the spot, set up a silverware setting, and without bothering to ask, set a mug of hot coffee in front of him. “A little busy today, hon. You boys all showed up at once,” she said, excusing herself.
O’Connor pulled the menu from the rack, reading through the little tourist blurb about George, the owner, some CIA chef from Detroit who managed to slice and dice everything from scratch. O’Connor didn’t really understand why the spooks were training chefs, but the pictures on the menu looked good and he wondered why he hadn’t bothered to stop in there sooner.
“Order whatever you want,” the guy next to him chuckled. “You’ll get a cheese omelet no matter what.”
As if to confirm this, the kitchen erupted in a brief confrontation, some skinny guy at the pass-through window hollering at another guy in the back. “I’m supposed to be a fucking dishwasher, dude!” there was a clatter of pans of some sort followed by more yelling, “I’m not a fucking egg man!”
The top-heavy blonde stacked plates on her arm, lining them up in a Barnum and Bailey display of balance. Each plate had an omelet adorned with a single slice of limp American cheese, some undercooked beige hashbrowns, and a fruit cup. Either everybody in the place had ordered the exact same thing, or it was the only dish that the struggling cook knew how to make.
The blonde shuffled plates to a few spots at the counter and hustled around the dining room with a coffee pot in the other hand, filling mugs as she dropped the rest of the plates at various tables. O’Connor heard the murmur of complaints, patrons informing her that they had ordered the mushroom Swiss omelet or eggs benedict or something. From what O’Connor could see, she was the only waitress working every packed table in the place, and even the little busboy, a timid Latino who apparently didn’t speak much English, seemed ready to walk out at any moment. When the waitress returned, she wiped the sweat from her forehead and skipped the chipper introduction. Without even looking at him, she pulled a little order pad from her apron and scribbled his seat number at the top. “What are you having?”
O’Connor recognized her from the bar. She was that hot little blonde that he’d watched his first night in town, wondering if dancing to Jimmy Buffet counted as cheating. He knew her better than all the other guys and seeing as how he had been the first to arrive at the scene, he felt relatively local. “You know,” he said, feeling benevolent, “I’m dyin’ for a plain ol’ cheese omelet with some hashbrowns and a fruit cup, actually.”
As if recognizing him for the first time, the blonde smirked. “Yer a doll, Mai Tai.” She scribbled his order on the pad and slipped it into the wheel of tickets hanging in the pass-through window. “Order in, Hitch!” she called and started stacking the next line of hot plates up her arm.
Hitch yanked the ticket from the wheel and read through it. “Is this some fucking joke!?” he yelled at her.
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“Make it nice, buddy.” She hustled off to distribute another stack of the identical omelets to angry patrons. “It’s the only order you’ll get right today.”
The guy next to him glanced over the sergeant’s casual attire, sneaking a peak under the counter at his slippers. “So,” the guy said, “you the local law enforcement around here?”
O’Connor, still feeling a sense of pride at being the first to arrive, leaned back on his stool. “I’m with the Terrestrial Investigations Group,” he said, expanding his chest slightly and feeling generally content with himself.
The guy next to him almost spit his coffee all over the counter. “No shit, a Tigger? I thought you guys were extinct.” The guy elbowed the beefy mass beside him, laughing slightly. “Rest easy boys!” he called, a little loudly. “TIG sent us its best!” This got a general round of laughter from any man within earshot.
O’Connor glanced around at the collection of agents. Years ago, when there were a couple dozen agents over at TIG, he might have been in a better position to start trouble. Unprofessional as it might be, there was plenty of interagency competition, and over the years there had been more than a handful of friendly domestic disturbances associated with various contractors. As if contemplating exactly this, the big guy beside him glanced around to see if O’Connor had any company. “So, Uncle Sam tapped a traffic cop to handle containment?”
Indignant at being referred to as a traffic cop, O’Connor grit his teeth as he emptied a couple sugar packets into his little mug. “Why send in a bunch of toy soldiers when a few decent agents will suffice?”
Scott, or John, or whatever he was calling himself laughed loudly and slapped O’Connor on the back in an unsolicited show of camaraderie. “Ah, don’t get all cranky on me. We won’t be getting in your way.” He chortled and shook his head. “We’ll have this all wrapped up before the rest of the Tiggers arrive.”
O’Connor emptied a tiny plastic cup of creamer into the mug and swirled his spoon around, avoiding eye contact. The last thing he needed was to start a scuffle with a whole division. He tapped the spoon against the rim of the mug, moving slowly; intentionally. Conversations at other tables had grown quiet, and he knew that they were being watched.
Instinctively recognizing that the conversation at the counter was deteriorating, the waitress grabbed one of the carbon copy omelet plates out of the window and swung around on O’Connor, leaning forward with the plate, presenting enough ample cleavage to distract the whole collection of testosterone-juiced patrons. “Here you go, sweetie,” she chirped. Stalling slightly to ensure that she had everyone’s undivided attention, she leaned forward a little further. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
O’Connor glanced down at the plate and the flaccid, overcooked crescent of browned eggs topped with a single slice of rubbery yellow cheese. The home fries looked to be both burnt as well as undercooked, accompanied by a little cup of canned fruit cocktail, complete with a chunk of unnaturally red maraschino cherry floating in flavorless syrup. Apparently, Chef George’s hand-crafted culinary training did not extend to this particular plate.
“Go ahead and toss that on our tab, would you?” The guy next to him nodded politely as he slid his sunglasses on and headed for the door. Most of the counter cleared with him, as well as a couple booths.
The last pair of plates went up in the passthrough window. The reluctant cook hit the bell and threw a pan into the dish sink with a clatter. “Order up!” There was another loud crash from the kitchen.
O’Connor pulled a squeeze bottle of ketchup from the condiment rack, slathering everything but the fruit cocktail cup in it, although, honestly, the fruit cup could use a little color. He spurt a splatter of Tabasco over the inedible omelet and cut a large chunk from the corner, shoveling it into his maw. The detour was insulting enough without the appearance of a second agency, but sitting there, entirely unarmed and in flip flops, no less, he rage-chewed through most of his plate in just a few fork loads.
The waitress swung past to check on him, impressed that he had already consumed half of what otherwise, she would probably have just tossed out. “Oh, honey!” she exclaimed. “They don’t feed you at home, or what?”
“I’m supposed to be poolside right now,” he grumbled.
She nodded and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you mentioned that once or twice the other night.”
He nodded, glaring over his shoulder as the last of the other agents cleared the parking lot.
“Oh, shoot!” She glanced up at the parking lot, watching as the last two big black SUVs pulled out of the lot into southbound traffic. “He forgot to sign!” She held the guest check with a credit receipt stapled to it. “Dammit!” She wiped her brow. O’Connor was guessing this was the first time she’d stood still in hours, maybe, and slipping out without signing the bill effectively stiffed her on what might be a generous tip for so many tables.
O’Connor remembered watching Mary wait tables back in college. She ran the counter at a little breakfast burrito joint that served brunch a few streets off the El Porto surf break. On weekends they were slammed non-stop. He remembered her coming home to their little studio smelling like coffee grounds and salsa residue. Busy as she was, she said that she never did mind the rushes because they paid the rent. This little blonde waitress had probably just turned more tables in a single day than she had all last week, and they stiffed her on the tip.
Suddenly realizing that he looked just like any of the other agents, O’Connor felt a bubble of vindication rising with his acid reflux. “I can sign that,” he offered, smiling serenely and feeling generous.