The Cook

The small bells clatter hollowly as the glass door is thrust open, dangling like limp, bronze flowers from the door’s tarnished pull handle. I glance up past the stainless steel prep table with the chipped, weathered plates, past the service window glowing scarlet from the heat lamps above, past the haggard waitress with the six kids and the new waitress with the perky boobs hovering like flies by the battered hostess stand, and I see Thomas Inman hauling his bulky frame through the narrow doorway.

He says nothing to the waitresses, and they say nothing to him. He takes his usual seat at the derelict booth in the far-left corner of the dingy, empty dining room, though I don’t actually see him sit; I’m already busy firing his order: three eggs over medium with a side of extra-crispy bacon and a bowl of green grapes – only green grapes. I’m used to firing a double cheeseburger with mayo, ketchup, and pickles, or an egg-white omelette with tomatoes and mushrooms at the same time as his order – the orders of Marcus Clement and Brianne Kirby, respectively – and I’m surprised that Inman has come here tonight without one of them.

Marcus Clement is DC elite, and while he does a bad job of hiding his disdain for the Jones Diner he has never had to worry about prying eyes or listening ears intruding into his business transactions here. Brianne Kirby on the other hand is the embodiment of white trash, but she’s one of the best mules around. Inman himself is a lobbyist, and a damn good one to boot. He knows which hands to grease and which ones to bite, he’s made good friends and better enemies, he’s influenced some of the most significant legislation to come out of DC, and he’s done it all while keeping his personal drug ring neatly under wraps.

The door’s bells protest loudly and this time it’s Larry Hughes. His smirk is greasier than his slicked-back hair as he looks the new waitress up and down and says something that I can’t make out. By the way her jaw slackens and her eyes widen in shock and disgust, however, I can probably guess the nature of his comment. I turn and flip the eggs and bacon with a spatula that’s stained every color but its original silver, while Hughes saunters over to Inman’s table. His face is pinched and his expression is perpetually greedy, a look that the Metropolitan Police Chief can’t shake even in his live interviews. I hear him call out a hearty greeting to Inman over the sizzle of the grill and the classic rock music piping from the radio by the cash register, and I wonder if he’ll be dining in tonight as well or if he’s just picking up.

I could send one of the waitresses to ask, but instead I focus my attention on preparing Inman’s plate. I stack the slippery eggs and position the almost-burned bacon around a small bowl before plucking the bag of mixed fruit out of the fridge and sifting through it to find the green grapes. After five years of cooking at the Jones Diner I have learned two general rules about the customers that frequent it: they don’t come for the food, and you don’t ask them any questions.

I set the plate in the window and rap the call bell smartly. The older waitress is there before the shrill peal has even dissipated, her worn, cracked hands reaching for the food. This is her third overnight shift in a row, and I can tell that she’s too tired to notice that the new waitress has put her baggy jacket on and is still casting furtive, wary glances at Hughes. Poor girl.

Hughes takes his leave as I turn back to clean the grill, whistling a jaunty ditty while tucking a thick envelope into his MPD jacket’s inside pocket. Just picking up, then. I glance him turning toward the new waitress as he reaches the door, who is stubbornly avoiding his gaze, but he only gives her a last, appraising once-over before ambling out into the crisp, muted night.

I expect Inman will be leaving shortly as well after he finishes his meal, then we might only get one or two drunkards in who can’t tell what day it is let alone where they’re eating before sunrise comes. Then it’ll be time for me to hang up my gray apron that may have actually been white 20 years ago, and go to sleep.

The bells rattle once more and another regular, Gary Brinkley, nervously enters. His eyes are shifty and restless and his face is drawn into an uncharacteristic frown. I straighten slightly at his unexpected entrance and hold a blank poker face as I watch him spot and then make his way toward Inman’s table. Gary Brinkley is middle management with Lockheed Martin, not high enough to be of any great importance but far enough out of the weeds to live comfortably. It’s extremely unusual for him to be coming in at 3:00 in the morning, however – he’s more of the late-dinner-after-a-long-day type. I also didn’t realize that he and Inman were acquainted.

The new waitress catches my eye and inclines her head toward the table, and I see that she took her jacket back off sometime after Hughes left. I shake my head slightly, and she returns to rolling her silverware. If they want something, they’ll let us know. I overhear the occasional exclamation, mostly from Brinkley, his tone shrill and pleading. Inman roars like thunder in return, showing a rare glimpse of the harsh and demanding beast he keeps locked under his normal cool, smooth personality. I’ve only heard him lose his temper one other time since he’s been coming here, and that night there was an unexplained fire at the house of a prominent judge.

They’re only together for five minutes before Brinkley comes staggering back to the door. His gait is jerky and uncoordinated, his face is a stark, sickly white, and his shoulders are caved in on themselves. He looks like a dead man walking. I chew on this disturbing development as I work on cleaning and tidying the kitchen, and the older waitress brings me Inman’s dishes. It’s only a matter of minutes now before he pays and leaves, and then this anomalous night can get back to some semblance of normalcy.

Instead, the door’s bells clamor yet again and I see a new man, a stranger, stepping lithely through the doorway. He’s definitely not a drunkard, but unlike most of the other regulars he doesn’t look like a businessman either. He’s dressed in jeans, work boots, and a simple, black v-neck that hugs his muscled chest. The keys to a Hyundai dangle from his right front pocket, but on his left wrist is a $15,000 Rolex. There’s a tattoo on one oversized bicep of the symbol for the Marines Scout Snipers, and 32 tally marks are tattooed across the other. The last two are fresh.

His dark eyes sweep back and forth, his face betraying no thought or expression as he scrutinizes the diner and glances briefly over me. There’s an air of sagacity, mystery, and danger about him, and I feel for a moment like a rat might after being spotted by an owl. He wordlessly turns and walks to Inman’s table with calm, measured steps, and I feel like the imminent threat has passed - for now.

It takes everything in me not to peek out the window after him, but I know that curiosity has killed more than just cats in DC and at my age I don’t have too many lives left. The Eagles are screeching about lying eyes just loud enough that there’s no hearing any of their conversation, and I force myself to do busy work to pass the time. After about ten minutes the stranger leaves first, not sparing me or the diner a second glance as he strides back out into the gloom. Inman finally pays and leaves shortly after, looking for all the world like nothing more than a plump business executive.

I try not to let myself speculate too much as the hours creep by, wanting only to get out and leave this grungy kitchen behind. It feels smaller now, somehow, like that stranger took half of the air out with him when he left. I get the feeling that I’ll be seeing more of him in the future, and I also get the feeling that I just saw Gary Brinkley for the last time.

Three other people come in as the night wears on – all drunk – including one who lends his own brand of odorous paint to the diner’s walls and checkered floor. 6:00 doesn’t come fast enough, but at long last it’s finally time to clock out and head home.

I step out into the pristine dawn, the city just starting stretch its arms and roll out of bed. A police cruiser in the parking lot immediately catches my eye, however, and I pin a neutral expression on my face as Larry Hughes and another officer climb out. They wave me over and I trudge to the cruiser, careful to not let my racing thoughts show. The other cop asks me if I can answer some questions about a customer that came into the diner during my shift that night.

“Well officer, I’ll try my best but I don’t really know too much,” I tell him evenly, glancing at Hughes as I say it. “I’m just the cook.”