Breakfast at Denny’s by Holden Wennekers

He guzzles back hot coffee letting it simmer down his tongue. He likes it hot, some do. He places the coffee mug on the table and lets the coffee wobble and spill a little on the placemat. 10:30 am. They’ve just finished breakfast. Now they’re waiting for dessert.

“You ever eat this good in the pen?” asks his buddy.

He laughs. “Never. Never this good.” Another heavy sip of coffee.

His buddy fixes his jacket’s front collar. He does it all morning, fix his jacket. They sit at a booth in the back of the Denny’s, brightly lit, shaded red, winter sun peering in through the window panes, plastered with advertisement posters: two can dine, family meal deal, 50% off all flapjacks, free refills. He ordered two breakfast specials and so did his buddy. Four eggs, four slices of toast (buttered), four slices of bacon (sizzling, greasy), four pork sausages, two plates of curly fries (salted), four glasses of orange juice, two fruit plates with melon, grapefruit, honey-dew, and about five cups of hot black coffee, onto his sixth. His buddy had the same thing.

The waitress brings them each a slice of cherry pie, fills their coffee mugs. Steamy hot cherry pie bleeding red in the middle. Both their bellies hanging like bags of rocks.

“You boys just let me know when you’re ready for the bill.”

“Yes ma’am.” The waitress is a little put-off by his staring. She walks off. Even his buddy notices his staring. Staring eyes of a starved man fresh out.

“Damn, partner,” says his buddy, “you got eyes for her.”

“I’ve been away a long while,” he laughs. “I never thought I’d see a woman again.”

“Did it bug you? Being in there?”

“Yes and no.” He sips his coffee.

“Couldn’t have bugged you that much, considering you knew you’d be out soon.”

“Yeah, but three years. Three years ain’t no joke.”

“I guess not.”

They finish their apple pies. He wants another slice. Orders another. The waitress takes the pie plates to the kitchen. Ogling her lecherously as she leaves.

“How much you make in there?” asks his buddy.

“In the pen?… A lot.” They keep their voices low. Denny’s ain’t exactly empty this morning.

“How much?” asks his buddy.

“Like, exactly how much?”

“Yeah.”

He laughs. “A lot. Why the hell you wanna know?”

“Just curious.”

“Well, a lot. Trust me. A lot. And all of it’s waiting for me down at Charlie’s. I need to be there by noon.”

“Not a problem. No trouble. We’ll head over there right after this.”

He sips his coffee. Hot. Steamy.

“You don’t want to tell me the whole amount?”

“The whole amount I made?”

His buddy nods.

“Why the hell you wanna know so bad?”

“I don’t know… You were getting paid like, what? $100,000 a pop?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Good money.”

“Very good money.”

The waitress brings two fresh slices of steamy pie.

“Thank you, darling.” Back to the kitchen, no words from the waitress.

“Worth the stint in the pen?”

“I suppose. You never been to prison, have you?”

“No, never to prison. I’ve been to the county plenty of times. But, you know, the people we work for, and the people they know. Lotta good lawyers.”

“Plenty of good lawyers.”

“Was it worse this time? Or the last time.”

“Prison?”

He nods.

“Shit, prison sucks either way. I can’t quite remember the last time, and I’m having trouble forgetting it this time.”

“Nothing happened to you. Did it?”

“Hell no. They kept me safe up in there. Most of the guards knew what I was up to. Most of them. The ones who didn’t were kept in the dark, where they remain. Mostly everybody just treated me like I was a ghost, and that’s how I carried myself. Like a ghost, floating around all invisible. And that was great, bein’ an observer. But I still had to see all the shit goin’ on around me.”

“Like what? What was the worst thing you saw?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Really? Did it bug you?”

“Yes.”

“I find that hard to believe. I mean—no offense, but—you’re like a stone cold killer, baby.” No reaction. He sips his coffee. “I mean, the shit I’ve heard about you. Shit I’ve heard you do to people.”

“Alright, alright.”

“I just thought you were impervious to that sort of shit. I mean, I know a lot of guys who are.”

“I don’t like prolonging pain.”

His buddy nods. “Quick and easy.”

He smiles. “Not always.”

“But when it comes to, you know-“ whispers, “killin’ somebody.”

“Keep your fuckin’ voice down.”

“Alright, alright; my bad. I’m just sayin’.”

“You ain’t sayin’ shit, motherfucker. You’re just talking.”

“You’re right. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Prison ain’t no joke. Closest place to hell I’ve ever been. And at this point, this moment right here, I don’t care to go back; no amount of money could convince me to go back.”

“Well,” he laughs, “you won’t need to go back for a while. You must’ve made a pretty penny up there. Like what? Eight or nine hundred thousand?”

“Something like that… It ain’t much, but it’s enough to live, for now.”

“You’re still working, right?”

“At the auto shop, yeah.”

“What about the other stuff you do?”

He shrugs. “Every month or so. But shit, man; I just got home.”

“Fair enough. Still, it must’ve been easy money in the pen.”

“You got no idea. Some of those fools who got thrown in, soft as cat shit, some of them. Never even seen so much as central booking. Didn’t have no clue what the pen had in store. I saw a lot of sorry ass naive sons-of-bitches get turned out quick, no clue how vicious those dudes on the courtyard were, or the dudes in the showers. I seen idiots who thought they could roll alone. Dudes who thought they could joke their way outta conflict, like they were Richard Pryor in Arizona State or somethin’.”

His buddy laughs.

“There was this one guy- ah, I shouldn’t tell you.”

“No, go on. There was this one guy, what?”

He sips his coffee. “Well, he was actually the first guy I did up in there. I did a decent job. Made it look like a suicide.”

“Who was it?”

“Some sorry sack of shit drug dealer named Reggie something. Reggie Brown? Reggie Wright? I don’t know. I called him Reggie Rat for short.”

His buddy laughs.

“Reggie Rat.”

“Reggie Rat tried to dime on his people, so Reggie Rat had to go.”

“How’d you do him?”

“It wasn’t easy. He had some friends in there, some guard his cousin knew. So nobody could touch him without gettin’ burnt.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Poor guy was just a fuckin’ scared weasel. I could smell it on him. I bet he never thought in a million years he’d end up in the pen. Young, dumb motherfucker.”

His buddy laughs.

“He was scared as hell. Too scared to shower.”

“Ew.”

“Always stank like doo-doo, like mutilated doo-doo.”

“Yeesh.”

“Always wore a phonebook around his neck, around his waist, chest, stomach, ass and groin. Look like some fucked up Halloween costume. I swear I never seen a fool more scared of anythin’ in my life.”

“How’d you handle him.”

“I became his friend. Bumped into him one time in line in the cafeteria. I said ‘sorry’ to him. Not like no bitch, but like a respectable man. He seemed to respect that. Respect me. Then I saw him in the library, nodded, introduced myself as Henry.”

“You used the name Henry?”

“Yeah, Henry Hill.”

“Get the fuck outta here. Was this guy half a moron?”

“He didn’t have many friends, and didn’t watch many movies. Only friend he had was his cousin, and his cousin’s buddy, who had all the other guards in the pen watchin’ his back. Other than that, he was a fairly uninformed motherfucker. I think all those speed balls he did on the outside made him thicker than dog shit.”

“What a goddamned idiot. So you became his friend?”

“Slowly but surely. We talked about books. He told me he used to love to read Stephen King novels, but he hadn’t read much of anything since he was a boy. I bullshitted him, told him I was really into Shakespeare and Dante and all that shit, and the fuckin’ asshole ate it up.”

His buddy laughs, a bit of a forced laugh.

“We talked about books. About the bible. Didn’t talk about movies, but we did talk about music. He was really into Dr. Dre, Tupac, Biggie, all that. Talked about rappers killing one another, about the C.I.A and all that jazz. Then he told me about his life, his time in foster care, yada-yada, first time he picked up a gun; he never mentioned using it on anyone.”

“How long were you two friends?”

“Almost three weeks. We got real close. Always hanging out and what not. In the library, on the courtyard. Then his cousin’s buddy, the guard, he gets Reggie a job peeling potatoes in the back of the kitchen. They need a second potato peeler, so Reggie talks to the guard and they hire me. And right then, that instant, I knew I had my in.”

“I can imagine.”

“They left me and that bastard, back there, alone, just the two of us, in the back of the kitchen where they kept the knives and what not, frying pans, meat cleavers.”

“You didn’t use the potato peeler on him? Did you?”

“Nah, no way, I couldn’t do that. That’d be like stabbing someone with a magic marker. No way I could-” he lowers his voice, “peel his ass to death.”

His buddy laughs.

“You’re right, you probably couldn’t pop a balloon with one of those… So what’d you use?”

“I’ll get to that, hold on. Let me tell the story.”

“Alright, sorry.”

“So I woke up that day, and I knew I had to do it, that day. I had to. I’d waited too damn long up to that point. So, we’re back there, in the kitchen, peeling potatoes; and I lean over to him, and say: ‘Hey. I was talkin’ to Leon,’ —that was the name of that guard, who knew his cousin, Leon. Then I stopped myself, like I was hesitating or somethin’. And I asked him: ‘Leon talked to you, right?’ And this dumbass says: ‘No, no he didn’t’.”

His buddy laughs.

“So I go into this whole thing about how Leon was puttin’ me on to a spot where we could escape. And, I have to give Reg’ credit in this case, because he looked to me and said: ‘you’re bullshittin’ me’. I maintained conviction, all serious and shit. Had to go on and on about how I wasn’t bullshittin’, but he just shook his head.”

“He knew you were lying?”

“I think he just assumed I was dumb, and naive, like he was, only he didn’t realize he was. So I kept on goin’, shut my mouth when the guards came around, and I told him how I had to show him the spot in the kitchen’s storage room, with the air duct and ventilation tunnels, which led to this place, which led to that place—I think I used the word ‘loading zone’. I don’t know. I didn’t even know what the hell I was talkin’ about, but he ate it right up.”

His buddy laughs. His laugh sounds strange, forced.

“So we leave the potatoes, and I take him to the spot I’m talking about; the storage closet in the back. Now, if this fool wasn’t about the stupidest bastard humanity had to offer, he would’ve known that no one in the prison can access the ventilation system; the vent doors are bolted shut. But he didn’t know that. We get in the room, and I leave the door open partway so both of us can see if any guards are coming.”

“Yeah.”

“And I show this fool the duct, and tell him to move a box over for some height, ‘cause I couldn’t touch the ceiling and he couldn’t either.”

The waitress comes around with the bill and puts it on the table.

“Cash or credit?” an impatient tone.

“Do you mind? We’re in the middle of a conversation.” That really pisses her off. Even his buddy’s a bit taken a-back, wide eyed, like he’s taken some brutish animal out to breakfast.

“Uhh- just give us a minute, sweetheart. Please and thank you.”

She walks off saying nothing.

“Anyways- what was I saying?”

“About the guards coming around.”

He keeps his voice low. He’s kept his voice low enough this entire time. No one in the restaurant has heard him talk, besides his buddy. “So this idiot is bent over. I look out the door. No guards. I shut the door. Now, he hadn’t seen it—and I guess I forgot to mention it, but—I’d taken an empty potato sack with me as we left, him ahead of me. They were usually laid all over the floor near the peeling station. So I grabbed one, all dusty and what not. This fool is still bent over. He’s got his whole ass pointed at me.”

His buddy laughs, loud. He can’t seem to help it. A couple of people in the restaurant look over at them.

“So he moves the box, under the vent, like the box were some scaffold or something, and he turns to look at me, with his big dumb smile. And he’s really fuckin’ thinkin’ we’re about to escape. And I’m smiling back at him, grinning all shit-eatin’ like some chimpanzee. All wild lookin’ and shit.”

He sips the last of his coffee.

“You know why chimps grin like that?”

“Why?”

“To put their prey at ease.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I always thought chimp’s smile like that when they’re scared.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Who knows. I know that’s why I grin like that.”

“To put your prey at ease?”

He nods.

“Did it work?”

“Oh yeah.”

“You used the potato sack?”

“Yeah. It was one of those sacks that had a strong pulley string, around the mouth, or whatever. I yanked that bitch like I was rippin' weeds outta the garden. Threw the bag over his head. Man, I fucking caught him off guard. Knee’d him in the groin.”

“Jesus Christ, what made you do that?”

“To make sure he couldn’t fight back.”

“How long’d it take.”

“Oh my god, it felt like a goddamned half-an-hour. I think it took like six minutes, maybe seven.”

His buddy’s still fixing his coat, all weird, like he’s hiding a pack of skittles in there.

“Real fuckin’ pain in the ass.”

“They thought it was a suicide?”

“Yeah, I made it look like one. I put a rope around his neck and hooked it to the door.”

The waitress comes back with the bill. They pay. Leave. Out to the parking lot. Cold. Beginning of winter. Grey skies, faint snow, cold muffled ambience around, a ghostly sort of windy whisper blowing gently on your neck and nose.

“Damn good meal,” says his buddy.

“Damn good. I don’t think I’ll ever eat like that again.”

“Oh don’t worry, man. Plenty more meals like that to come. Shoot, that’s just breakfast. We ain’t even had lunch yet.”

They both laugh. Get in his buddy’s car. Heaters sitting cold. Car frigid, frosty, rimed, sat patient, silent, waiting to rumble, blow exhaust smoke, heat up.

They sit waiting, a moment. He looks to his pal. What’s taking so long? His buddy now looks nervous, out of nowhere. What gives?

“We should head to Charlie’s now.”

“Cool,” his buddy says.

His buddy goes to put the key in, fumbles it, drops it, on the mat, passenger side, in the sludge, by his boot.

“Shit.” His buddy leans across the gear shift to pick it up.

He looks down his buddy’s coat.

A tape recorder…?