Donaldson got to campaign headquarters mid-morning, and spent some time chatting with some worker bees. I got there about eleven. Then I took off with Donaldson riding with me. Brew had a cold and was under the weather, so it was just me. It shouldn’t be a problem. By now I pretty much had the stump speech ingrained on my DNA, even with the changes we made from time to time to answer Stewart’s latest nonsense. We had taken to using a line from the movie Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps, which wouldn’t be made for many more years to come. Whenever somebody started spouting something pro-Stewart and patently false about me, I would just hit back with, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll stop telling the truth about Andy Stewart the same day he stops telling lies about me!”
In the meantime, you smile a lot, shake hands, and pray to God they remember to pull the lever next to the big ‘R’ on November 6, if they remember to get out of bed and go vote. There has to be a better way!
We finished up around 8:30 or so, and I just wanted to go home, but as we drove through Westminster I felt my stomach rumble. The rubber chicken dinner had been especially rubbery tonight, and I just pushed it around the plate some, all the while thanking them for my delicious meal. I began to wonder which circle of Hell I was going to end up in, and settled on the Eighth Circle, for Fraud. I only had one more to go before I was hopelessly doomed.
I saw a light up ahead, near the corner of Manchester and Baltimore, near the mall. “You hungry?” I asked Fletcher.
“Not really.”
I smiled and shrugged at him. “Well, I need something to forget about that delicious chicken dinner. You can have coffee if you want.”
“Sure, why not!”
I nodded and pulled into the diner’s parking lot. It was getting late and it was after the evening rush. I had been here any number of times over the years. It’s a nice place owned by a Greek immigrant and usually staffed by members of his innumerable family. We parked and went inside.
I held the door open for Fletcher and then followed him inside. At that hour there was a man at the cash register near the door, and I recognized him as the owner, Nick Papandreas, although he didn’t recognize me. He greeted us and showed us to a booth about four down from the door, and said a waitress would be out in a moment. As we followed him, I noticed a woman, a young woman, sitting huddled up in the first booth inside the door, sipping a cup of coffee. We sat down, and it was just by chance that I had the seat facing the door, and Fletcher took the seat opposite me, so that his back was to the door.
A girl who looked like she was college age came out from the back of the restaurant and saw Nick pointing at us. She said something to him and smiled, and then grabbed a couple of menus. She approached and flashed a big smile at both of us. “Hi there, fellas! Can I start you off with some coffee?”
I smiled back. “Coffee for my friend, and I’d like some tea, please.”
“Sweet tea?”
I shook my head. “Hot tea, please.”
“Sure thing!” She gave us the menus and said, “Back in a jiffy!”
Fletcher twisted his head to watch her leave. “Cute kid.”
“They’re all cute at that age. I think I was born older than that,” I replied with a smile.
When the young lady returned with our coffee and tea, I asked, “So, are you Nick’s daughter or niece?”
She laughed. “Neither. I’m a second cousin, but we all call him Uncle Nick. Care to order?”
“Well, I’m not up for a meal, but if you have any pie left…”
“Best pie in the county! We have apple, cherry, blueberry, and strawberry still available.”
I set my menu down and looked at Fletcher. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a nice slice of pie.”
He nodded and agreed. “Apple for me, a la mode, please.” He set his menu on top of mine.
“Sure thing, sugar,” she said to him. She turned to me.
“Cherry, a la mode, too.”
“Nothing like cherry pie on a night like tonight,” she replied, winking at me.
I chuckled and waved her on her way.
Fletcher smiled. “I think she’s flirting with you.”
“Yeah, and a married candidate for Congress is going to try something with a reporter across from him. Right!”
He laughed at this. “Still…”
“Fletcher, of course she’s flirting with me. Waitresses flirt with their customers. That’s like saying birds fly in the air. It gets them good tips. Aside from that? I’m damn near twenty years older than she is, and married to boot.” I waved my ring finger at him. “If she didn’t kill me one way, Marilyn would kill me another way!” He just laughed at that.
As I talked to him, I had one eye vaguely on the young woman in the booth by the front door. I had taken my glasses off after sitting down, and didn’t bother putting them back on, but something about her seemed a bit off. Maybe it was the way she had her jacket wrapped around her, or the way she seemed to be holding her left arm, or the sunglasses she was wearing when it was dark out. She just seemed a bit off to me, but I didn’t pay her all that much attention. I couldn’t see what she was eating, but she seemed to be dawdling over it. Then again, maybe I was just seeing something that wasn’t there.
Nick’s second cousin returned with our pie, and flirted a little more with us. At that point I stopped paying attention to the girl at the front, and Fletcher and I just talked politics while we ate. It was a quiet night. Nick said something to the waitress and he went back into the kitchen. That was when things changed.
A big guy pushed through the front door to the diner and started looking around. He was dressed in what looked like mechanic’s coveralls, but torn and greasy. He looked dirty and disheveled. He was very tall and fat, but probably the kind that had some muscle underneath. I saw the waitress go up to him and say something that I couldn’t quite make out. He ignored her and pushed past her and kept looking around her. She protested, and he shoved her aside, startling her. She staggered against the counter, and then ran back into the kitchen.
That was when I noticed the woman sitting at the booth near the door trying to slide down in the bankette seat and slip under the table. The big guy saw her out of the edge of his vision and turned towards her. “WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING, YOU STUPID CUNT!?” he roared. Then he reached out and grabbed her arm, causing her to cry out.
Fletcher and I stopped talking, and he turned around in his seat to see what was going on. “What the hell?” he commented.
“I don’t know, but I don’t think it’s good,” I replied.
“GET UP, BITCH! WE’RE GOING HOME! MOVE YOUR FAT ASS, YOU STUPID FUCKING CUNT!”
At that point Nick came hustling out of the swinging doors to the kitchen, followed closely by his cousin. He looked angry; she looked nervous. “What going on?! You get out of here!” I don’t know how long Nick had been in the country, but he still had his heavy Greek accent.
“FUCK YOU!” The newcomer swung and connected with Nick’s chest. It wasn’t much of a contest. Nick looked like he was in his early fifties, and it was obvious he had eaten too much of his fine cooking. The big guy was bigger, at least a foot taller, and a lot heavier. Nick went back on his ass.
“Uncle Nick!” screamed the waitress, who went running towards Nick.