Behind the bar counter stood a short man with tall hair. He wore sporting attire and held a large fish.
“Good afternoon, officer, ma’am,” said he. “Would you care to take a number?”
“A number?” said Jack. “What do you mean?”
“So that I can seat you. In the right order.”
“But there’s just the two of us.”
“In the right order to be served.”
“There’s still just the two of us.”
“Take a number,” said Dorothy.
“Can I have any number?” Jack asked.
“You can have this number,” said the short man with tall hair. And he placed his fish upon the countertop, peeled a number from what looked to be a date-a-day calendar jobbie on the wall next to a framed picture of a man in sporting attire holding –
“Can we sit anywhere?” Jack asked. And he viewed the tables. All were empty.
“What number do you have?” asked the short man.
“Twenty-three,”[41] said Jack.
“Then you’re in luck. Table over there, by the window.”
Dorothy and Jack sat down at this table.
“Was I supposed to understand any of that?” Jack asked.
“What’s to understand?” asked Dorothy, and she took up a menu. It was a fish-shaped menu. Jack took up one similar.
“So,” said the short man, suddenly beside them, “allow me to introduce myself. My name is Guy and I will be your waiter. Can I recommend to you today’s specials?”
Jack looked up at the short man called Guy. “Why don’t you give it a go?”
“Right,” said the short man called Guy, and he drew a tall breath.
And sang a jolly song.
We have carp from Arizona
And perch from Buffalo,
A great big trout
With a shiny snout
From the shores of Idaho.
We’ve a pike called Spike
And I’m sure you’d like
A bowl of fries with him.
There’s a shark called Mark
That I’ll serve, for a lark,
With salad to keep you slim.
I’ve monkfish, swordfish, cramp fish, cuttlefish,
Goby, goldfish, gudgeon.
I’ve sperm whale, starfish, bottle-nose dolphin,
I ain’t no curmudgeon.
If you like salmon, perch or bass,
Mullet, hake, or flounder,
Dory, plaice, or skate, or sole,
Try Guy, he’s a great all-rounder.
And there was plenty more of that, twenty-three[42] verses more of that, all sung in the “country” style.
“Well,” said Jack, clapping his hands together when the song was finally done, “I quite enjoyed that.”
“Enjoyed what?” asked Guy.
“The song,” said Jack.
“What song was that?”
“The one about fish.”
“Oh, that song. I’m sorry, officer, it’s been a rough morning, what with all the toing and froing.”
“Yes,” said Jack. And added in as delicate a fashion as he could, “Do you have anything other than fish on your menu?”
Guy looked puzzled. He was puzzled.
“Meat,” said Jack. “Any meat?”
“A burger,” said Guy.
“A burger,” said Jack.
“Certainly, officer. One mackerel burger coming up. And for your lovely daughter?”
“Daughter?” said Jack.
“So sorry, officer, it’s these new shoes, the insteps pinch.”
“I’ll have the sardines,” said Dorothy, perusing the menu. “Do they come with the quahog sauce?”
“Surely do, ma’am. And whiting mayo and chingree chitlins.”
“Mahser on the side?”
“With hilsa and beckti?”
“That’s the way I love it.” And Dorothy smiled at Guy and he smiled back at her.
“And a mackerel burger for your uncle,” said Guy.
“Yes,” said Jack, “With snodgrass and mong-waffle and pungdooey. Oh and add a little clabwangle to my little chikadee while you’re about it.”
Guy bowed and departed.
“You made all that up,” said Dorothy.
“Well, so did you.”
“Here you go then,” said Guy, presenting his discerning patrons with an overloaded tray.
“That was fast!” said Jack.
“This is America,” said Guy, and he placed the tray upon the table and lifted food covers from two plates.
“That’s not what I ordered,” said Jack.
“Nor me,” said Dorothy.
Guy burst into tears.
Dorothy reached out and patted his shoulder. “There’s no need to go upsetting yourself,” she said. “I’m sure that whatever this is, it will be very nice.”
“What is it?” asked Jack, taking up a fork and prodding at the items that lay steaming up on his plate.
“It’s chicken fish,” said the sobbing Guy. “Locally caught and as fresh as the day is long.”
“It’s chicken,” said Jack. “There’s no fish at all involved here.”
“’Tis too,” said Guy.
“’Tis not,” said Jack. “It’s chicken. That’s a chicken leg.”
“It’s a fish leg,” said Guy.
“Fish do not have legs,” Jack informed him.
“Chicken fish do.”
“I don’t believe that there is such a thing as a chicken fish,” said Jack.
“There’s one there on the counter,” said Guy. “I was petting it when you came in.”
“It doesn’t have any legs.”
“I de-legged it earlier. That’s what’s on the plates.”
“Fish don’t have wings, either,” said Dorothy. “There are wings on my plate.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Guy. “Flying fish have wings, everybody knows that.”
“This is definitely chicken.” Jack sniffed at the chicken on his plate.
“Mine’s definitely chicken, too,” said Dorothy.
“You’re sure?” Guy dabbed at his running nose with an oversized red gingham handkerchief. “You’re absolutely sure?”
“Jack here is a police officer,” said Dorothy, “so he knows these things.”
“I knew it!” Guy beat a right-hand fist into a left-hand handkerchief-carrying palm. “I knew it. Chicken fish be damned. I’ve been cheated, officer. I wish to register a complaint.”
“Do you have any fish in this restaurant?” Jack asked.
Guy sniffed.
“That wasn’t an answer,” said Jack.
Guy shrugged.
“Nor was that.”
“All right! All right!” Guy fell to his knees, although given his shortcomings in the tallness department the difference in height that this made was hardly perceptible. “I’m so sorry,” he wailed, and he beat his chest with diminutive fists. “Thirty years I’ve been in business here. Thirty years in these parts, winning every fishing competition, known in these parts as Guy Haley, Champion of Champions. I took an eighty-pound buckling up at the creek in forty-seven. Never been beaten. Never been beaten.”
“Where is this leading?” Jack asked. “Only we are hungry. And we are in a hurry.”
“I’ll leave you to your chicken fish, then.”
“No,” said Jack, “you won’t. I don’t want chicken. I will eat anything that you have, but not chicken.”
“All right! All right!” Guy was back on his feet.
“Get up,” said Jack.
“I am up.”
“Then please, in as few words as possible, offer us an explanation.”
“For what?” asked Guy.
“Would you like me to hit him?” asked Dorothy.
Guy flinched.
“No,” said Jack. “He’s only little.”
“I’m not that little,” said Guy.
“True enough,” said Jack. “I’ll hit you myself.”
“No, please.”
“Then tell us. Everything.”
“Well, like I say, I’ve been fishing these parts for –”
Jack raised his fist.
“No, please, officer, no.”
“Then tell us,” said Jack. “Everything. And you know what I mean by that.”
“It’s not my fault.” Guy wept. “The chickens made me do it.”
“The chickens?” said Jack. “The chickens?”
“Out there.” Guy pointed with a short and trembly finger. “Out there in the desert, twenty miles from here in Area Fifty-Two.”