The Thing

DISCLAIMER: Contains strong language and physical violence.

***

Coffee climbed the glass carafe in a steady flow, filling the diner with the rich scent of Lavazza Rossa. The waitress—late thirties, dark hair styled in a bob—grabbed the pot by the black handle and carried it across the checkered floor to the corner booth, where Tony sat alone watching the parking lot through the window.

"Let me fill you up."

He slid his cup toward her. "Thanks, Gina."

"Looks like your friend finally made it."

Tony nodded. "And he ain't late because of traffic."

Gina smiled the way diner waitresses smile and he watched her walk back behind the counter, topping off two men sitting near the door, eating breakfast and watching a replay of last night's Cubs game on mute.

Tony reached for the sugar dispenser and dumped in three hard shakes. He picked up the spoon and stirred in slow circles when the door swung open and a gust of cold air swept through the diner, carrying snowflakes that melted the second they hit the floor.

"You're late," Tony said without looking.

"I'm here, ain't I?"

"Late and here aren't mutually exclusive, Frank. A guy can be both. You, for example. Right now. Sitting across from me at—" Tony checked his watch. "—ten forty-seven, when you were supposed to be here at ten-thirty."

Frank slipped into the other side of the booth, brushing snow off his shoulders. "You wanna talk about my punctuality or you wanna talk about the thing?"

"The thing. Right." Tony kept stirring his coffee. "Here's my problem with the thing, Frank. My problem is that the thing was supposed to be simple. The kind of thing where I give you money, you do the thing, and then we never talk about the thing again."

Frank's eyes went to Tony, to the cup, then back to Tony. "You trying to separate the coffee from the water, or what?"

Tony didn't answer. He didn't stop stirring either. His eyes stayed on Frank, who kept shifting in his seat, fingers drumming the table edge. When Gina came with the coffee pot, Frank waved her off, but she filled his cup anyway. After she'd left, Frank took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled sharply.

"Listen Tony, things got complicated."

Tony set the spoon on the saucer with a small clink. "'Got complicated,'" he repeated.

"Yeah. Like the Deluca thing. You remember how that went?"

Tony rubbed the back of his neck and regarded Frank's tired face. "You eat yet?"

"What?"

"Breakfast. You eat?"

"No. I came straight here."

Tony waved at Gina. "Can we get a short stack? And some bacon."

"Tony, I don't need—"

"You look like shit, Frank. When's the last time you slept?"

Frank rubbed his face. "Couple days."

"So eat something. Then we talk."

Gina brought the pancakes five minutes later. Frank looked at them like he wasn't sure who they were for, then picked up a fork and started eating. Tony watched him, sipping his coffee.

"These are good," Frank said with his mouth full. "I only ever get the hash browns."

"Gina's aunt makes the batter fresh every morning," Tony said. "Been coming here fifteen years. Never had a bad meal."

Frank nodded, stuffing in another bite. The tension went out of his shoulders. Tony waited until the plate was half empty before he spoke again.

"So. The thing."

Frank set down his fork and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. The tension returned. "Look, there was this dog—"

"A dog."

"Yeah, a dog. A big one. Some kind of giant shepherd mix. It was in the house."

"The house where the thing was supposed to happen."

"That house, yeah."

"The house you cased for two weeks. The house you told me—you assured me, Frank—would be clean."

"The dog wasn't there during the casing. The dog was new."

Tony picked up his spoon again and caught the reflection of the two men sitting at the counter. He put the spoon back down.

"So what you're telling me is that the entire operation—the meticulously planned operation—was derailed. By a dog."

"It wasn't just a dog, Tony. That thing had teeth like piano keys."

"So you ran."

"I didn't run. I made a tactical retreat in the face of superior enemy forces. Napoleon did the same thing at Waterloo."

"Napoleon lost at Waterloo."

Neither of the men spoke. There was just the jukebox on low playing a Sinatra tune, the distant clatter of dishes being washed, and Gina giving a hard time to the two men trying to get sweet with her.

"Frank, I'm gonna ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth, because I've known you six years and I'd like to think that counts for something."

Frank swallowed. "Okay."

"Is there anything else you want to tell me? Anything at all? Because now's the time. Right now. Before this goes any further."

Frank hesitated. "No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah Tony. There was a dog. That's it."

Tony nodded. "Okay, Frank." He cocked his head like he heard something far away and brushed something off his left shoulder, then looked up at Frank. "You know what Sal's gonna say when I tell him the thing wasn't handled? You got any idea?"

Frank didn't answer.

"He's going to say, 'Tony, you told me the thing was getting handled. You gave me your word, Tony.' And I'm going to have to say, 'Sal, my sincerest apologies, but my associate got intimidated by a household pet.' And then he's gonna do that thing where he gets all quiet and stares off into nothing."

"It wasn't a household pet."

Tony slammed his fist on the table. "I don't care if it was a hellhound summoned from the ninth circle. I don't care if it was Cerberus himself taking a vacation from fucking guarding the underworld. The thing was the job. You took the job. You took the money. And the job ain't done."

Frank crossed his arms and leaned back in the booth. "You know what your problem is, Tony?"

"Enlighten me."

"Your problem is you see everything in black and white. Job, no job. Done, not done. You don't account for the grey areas. The unexpected variables. The chaos inherent in the system."

"The chaos inherent in the system."

"Yeah. You gotta improvise. You gotta feel the rhythm of the thing and adapt."

Tony rolled his eyes. "You've been reading again, haven't you?"

The door opened a second time. A woman stepped inside. Mid-thirties, wearing a long black coat dusted with snow. She didn't stomp her feet or brush off her shoulders. She just stood there for a moment, scanning the room. The two men at the counter never stopped eating.

Her gaze landed on Tony. Then Frank. Then she walked over, her heels clicking against the linoleum. She stopped at the edge of the booth and dropped a small manila envelope on the table.

Frank looked at her. Then he looked at Tony. "Who the fuck is this?"

"Relax, Frank. This is Gloria. She works for Sal."

Frank's leg started bouncing under the table. "Okay, so we're having a party or what?"

Tony looked at Gloria. She looked at Tony, looked at Frank. Then she turned and walked out of the diner, disappearing back into the snow.

Frank gestured with his hands. "What the fuck was that all about?"

"You lied to me, Frank."

"What?"

"There's no dog, is there?"

Frank wet his lips. "Lie? To you? No—no. I'd never. Come on, Tony."

"The truth is that you were paid thirty thousand dollars for a job anyone halfway competent could have done in under an hour. The truth is that you spent two thousand of those on a Glock you didn't fire and twenty-eight on a cocaine habit you never disclosed but everyone knows about. The truth is that you weren't at that house last night, because you were in a hotel room in Englewood getting high with a woman named Darlene."

The color drained from Frank's face.

Tony opened the envelope and pulled out a photograph. He slid it across the table. "Darlene. Room 203. The Windy Park Hotel. You want me to tell you what you ordered from room service at 2 AM? Because I can."

Tony looked at Frank. Frank looked back. "Tony." He held up his hands. "Tony. Come on."

Tony turned his coffee cup a hundred-eighty degrees. "You know what I hate most in this world, Frank?"

Frank shifted in his seat.

"Being put in a position." Tony turned the cup another one-eighty back to the way it was. "See, a rat—a rat's easy. You find out a guy's talking, there's no conversation, it's just business. But you ain't a rat, Frank. You're a fuckup. And a fuckup I can work with. A fuckup, I go to Sal, I say the guy made a mistake, he's good for it, give him another chance."

Frank nodded quickly. "Yeah. Exactly. A mistake. I'll fix it, Tony, I swear. Whatever it takes."

"But here's where you put me in a position." Tony's voice was calm. "I asked you straight. Tell me the truth, Frank, and we figure this out together. And you looked at me—six years, Frank—and you lied to my face. Again. And again."

Tony reached into his pocket.

Frank's whole body went rigid. "Whoa, Tony. Whoa whoa whoa. Let's talk about this."

"We've been talking, Frank. For twenty minutes now. About dogs. About Napoleon. About the chaos inherent in the system."

"So what, I'm done? Six years counts for nothing?"

"It does. It's why Gina's pouring coffee instead of someone hosing off the warehouse floor."

Frank exploded. "Six fucking years and this is it? With Sinatra playing in the background like we're in some fucking Scorsese flick? You think you're so tough with your two goons pretending to eat breakfast."

The suits rose in unison, hands reaching inside their jackets, but Tony raised a hand without looking their way. They paused, then slowly sat back down.

Frank's spittle hit the table as he ranted. "You know what? Fuck you. Fuck Sal. Fuck all of you. I should've—"

The shot took Frank in the chest. He jerked back against the booth, hand flying up like he was trying to catch something. The second shot was insurance. Frank slumped sideways, head coming to rest against the window, eyes still open. Blood began to pool beneath him, finding the crack where the cushion met the wall, dripping onto the floor one drop at a time.

Tony sat alone for a long moment. Frank's blood slid down the glass in slow rivulets, mixing with the condensation. The jukebox found Dean Martin. "That's Amore." The two suits were back to their breakfast.

The kitchen door swung open and Gina emerged with a mop and bucket. She walked past the counter, past the two suits, and stopped at the edge of the booth.

"Christ, Tony. The window?"

"I'll have someone come by."

"I know you will." She leaned the mop against the table and pulled out a cigarette. Lit it. Took a long drag. She looked at Frank, at the hole in his chest, at the way his head lolled against the glass. "Shame. I liked Frank. He was good for a twenty percent tip. Not like some people."

"I tip fine."

"You tip adequate." Another drag. "There's a difference."

Tony stood, straightening his coat. "Sal's having me over tomorrow. Rosario's. Eight o'clock."

"Apologizing? Or moving up in the world?"

"Both."

Gina tapped ash off her cigarette onto Frank's shoulder. "You know what my mother used to say about men who move up."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"She said the view's real nice from the top, right up until you realize there's nowhere left to climb."

Tony buttoned his coat. "Smart woman."

"And a drunk who died owing money to half the bookies in town." Gina tossed her cigarette into Frank's cup. "But she wasn't wrong."

Tony put two hundred-dollar bills on the table. Gina looked at the money. Looked at Frank. Looked at Tony. She nodded.

"How's Darlene?" she asked.

"Good. Taking computer classes to help with the business."

Gina picked up the mop. "Tell her I'll give her a call, yeah? We'll have dinner soon."

Tony smiled, nodded. He pushed through the door and stepped out into the snow. The cold air burned his lungs and made his eyes water. He stood there for a moment, watching his breath cloud and dissolve.

Behind him, through the window, Gina mopped in slow circles around the booth. The two suits carried Frank out through the back. Dean Martin was singing about love.

He lit a cigarette and started walking.