All right, A*K, here ya go, my ditty ~
IN SHORT ORDER
~ By J. Dane Tyler
an AT THE BIJOU debut
He drags on the cigarette and lets the smoke out through his nostrils in a gray-blue plume. It clashes with the red vinyl of the stools, chairs and pocked countertop. A lump of adobe which used to be a pile of donuts fossilizes under a glass cover at the L-turn. A waitress is smacking her gum and flipping through pages of a bright magazine with tattered corners and a permanent crease in the center.
He swipes absently at his straight hair and sweeps it out of his eyes. He stares at the dossier in front of him and shifts in his uncomfortable booth seat. The ash from his smoke is three quarters of an inch long, but he doesn’t notice. His heavy brows are drawn over coal-colored eyes as he reads the forms.
Six women. All missing in the last three months, give or take. All of them traceable to this area and no farther. One in particular has his attention. A pretty brunette named Cindy Wilkes. Her photo is like a model’s head shot. She’s in professionally done make-up, her hair delicately coifed around her slender face, one hand on her cheek. A tiny rhinestone winks from its bed in her painted fingernail. It’s that little stone that captures his attention. A distinctive mark someone would recognize if they saw it.
A meaty, cigar-choked voice from the back grinds into the dining room. “Order up!”
He glances up at the clatter of a stoneware plate on the metal pass-through shelf, and the waitress brushes her palms on the tiny scallop-edged apron cinched around her waist. She pats her hair into place, but the plastic shield of her hair spray gave up hours ago. She grips the edge of the platter with the pads of her fingers, careful not to damage the manicure which cost more than her pink polyester uniform. The tag bouncing from the top of one boob reads “Madeline”.
Madeline spins on squeaking orthopedic shoes, tattered from years of hard floors and hard shifts. Still smacking gum behind bright scarlet lipstick, her cheap pantyhose swish against her skirt as she rounds the corner to his table.
“Here ya go,” she says around the gum. One edge of the plate bangs onto the pitted Formica and Madeline slides it with practiced ease behind the dossier. She drops her weight onto one leg and thrusts her hip out to catch the hand which falls on it. “That it for ya?”
He doesn’t look up. “Can I get more coffee?” he says, but doesn’t meet her eyes. His fall back on the page.
“Yeah, gimme a minute,” she sighs, and doesn’t hide her exasperation.
He juts his chin forward to acknowledge her statement, but when she turns her back to him he looks up. “Hey, wait a sec.”
She stops. Her posture screams irritation when she turns back to him, hand on hip again. “Yeah?”
“Let me ask you something.”
“I already told you, apple, cherry and blueberry.”
“No, not that. Look at these pictures.”
She exhales frustration through her nose and paces back to the table, where he’s spreading a series of 3×5 photographs over the dossier folder.
“Ever seen any of these girls?” he says, and looks up at her for the first time since he came in an hour ago. It took him forty-five minutes to get around to ordering.
Madeline puts one palm on the sticky table top, the other still on her hip. She gazes at the photos, touching each one with a long, hooked nail before moving to the next. He watches her face, and sees something flash on it.
Recognition, maybe.
“Seen ‘em?” he says, and watches her closely.
She stands and shakes her head. “I dunno. Lotta people come through here on their way to someplace else, y’know? I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. None of ‘em look familiar.”
“None of ‘em? How ‘bout this one?” He points to the photo of Cindy Wilkes, taps it.
“Nah, not really. Why? You a cop?”
“No, I ain’t a cop,” he lies. “But all these girls were around here
recently. Sure you’ve never seen ‘em? Maybe they came in here to eat?”
“Nah, I don’t think so. Maybe one of the other girls who work here. You know, day shift.”
He nods. “Okay. Thanks.” But he’s not convinced.
He watches from the corner of his eye as she squeaks back toward the kitchen and bangs through the swinging door. He hears her chattering and that grindy-smoke voice answers, but he can’t hear what they say.
He takes a bite of his burger, and something hard stops his jaw from chewing. He fishes his fingers into his mouth in search of the foreign matter, brows drawn over his raven eyes again. He finds it and pulls it out.
His breath catches in his throat and his heart spikes when he sees it, his eyes bulging from their sockets. He feels the nausea swirl in his stomach as horror freezes his blood.
A fingertip. A delicate fingertip, with a broken painted nail on it, a tiny rhinestone embedded in the lacquer.
He’s too busy vomiting on the table to hear Madeline come out of the kitchen with the shotgun in her hands.
He swipes absently at his straight hair and sweeps it out of his eyes. He stares at the dossier in front of him and shifts in his uncomfortable booth seat. The ash from his smoke is three quarters of an inch long, but he doesn’t notice. His heavy brows are drawn over coal-colored eyes as he reads the forms.
Six women. All missing in the last three months, give or take. All of them traceable to this area and no farther. One in particular has his attention. A pretty brunette named Cindy Wilkes. Her photo is like a model’s head shot. She’s in professionally done make-up, her hair delicately coifed around her slender face, one hand on her cheek. A tiny rhinestone winks from its bed in her painted fingernail. It’s that little stone that captures his attention. A distinctive mark someone would recognize if they saw it.
A meaty, cigar-choked voice from the back grinds into the dining room. “Order up!”
He glances up at the clatter of a stoneware plate on the metal pass-through shelf, and the waitress brushes her palms on the tiny scallop-edged apron cinched around her waist. She pats her hair into place, but the plastic shield of her hair spray gave up hours ago. She grips the edge of the platter with the pads of her fingers, careful not to damage the manicure which cost more than her pink polyester uniform. The tag bouncing from the top of one boob reads “Madeline”.
Madeline spins on squeaking orthopedic shoes, tattered from years of hard floors and hard shifts. Still smacking gum behind bright scarlet lipstick, her cheap pantyhose swish against her skirt as she rounds the corner to his table.
“Here ya go,” she says around the gum. One edge of the plate bangs onto the pitted Formica and Madeline slides it with practiced ease behind the dossier. She drops her weight onto one leg and thrusts her hip out to catch the hand which falls on it. “That it for ya?”
He doesn’t look up. “Can I get more coffee?” he says, but doesn’t meet her eyes. His fall back on the page.
“Yeah, gimme a minute,” she sighs, and doesn’t hide her exasperation.
He juts his chin forward to acknowledge her statement, but when she turns her back to him he looks up. “Hey, wait a sec.”
She stops. Her posture screams irritation when she turns back to him, hand on hip again. “Yeah?”
“Let me ask you something.”
“I already told you, apple, cherry and blueberry.”
“No, not that. Look at these pictures.”
She exhales frustration through her nose and paces back to the table, where he’s spreading a series of 3×5 photographs over the dossier folder.
“Ever seen any of these girls?” he says, and looks up at her for the first time since he came in an hour ago. It took him forty-five minutes to get around to ordering.
Madeline puts one palm on the sticky table top, the other still on her hip. She gazes at the photos, touching each one with a long, hooked nail before moving to the next. He watches her face, and sees something flash on it.
Recognition, maybe.
“Seen ‘em?” he says, and watches her closely.
She stands and shakes her head. “I dunno. Lotta people come through here on their way to someplace else, y’know? I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. None of ‘em look familiar.”
“None of ‘em? How ‘bout this one?” He points to the photo of Cindy Wilkes, taps it.
“Nah, not really. Why? You a cop?”
“No, I ain’t a cop,” he lies. “But all these girls were around here
recently. Sure you’ve never seen ‘em? Maybe they came in here to eat?”
“Nah, I don’t think so. Maybe one of the other girls who work here. You know, day shift.”
He nods. “Okay. Thanks.” But he’s not convinced.
He watches from the corner of his eye as she squeaks back toward the kitchen and bangs through the swinging door. He hears her chattering and that grindy-smoke voice answers, but he can’t hear what they say.
He takes a bite of his burger, and something hard stops his jaw from chewing. He fishes his fingers into his mouth in search of the foreign matter, brows drawn over his raven eyes again. He finds it and pulls it out.
His breath catches in his throat and his heart spikes when he sees it, his eyes bulging from their sockets. He feels the nausea swirl in his stomach as horror freezes his blood.
A fingertip. A delicate fingertip, with a broken painted nail on it, a tiny rhinestone embedded in the lacquer.
He’s too busy vomiting on the table to hear Madeline come out of the kitchen with the shotgun in her hands.
(c) 2010 ~ Author J Dane Tyler
An AT THE BIJOU Debut!
Visual Selections gracing mood
ala AmberNaddy, CelineWalker
SO WHO IS THIS GUY?
AT THE BIJOU QUESTIONED A SOURCE OF AUTHORITY. (We asked his wife)
Let's give it up for Vanessa, Mrs JDT,
delivering a sassy BIO with BIAS ~
But Hey, isn't that just the most lovin' way?
J Dane Tyler plays with words the way others play with darts. He loves to throw them at his target and for him, the bullseye is giving you nightmares, and making you afraid of the dark.
Husband, father, a good writer, and a good friend.
Husband, father, a good writer, and a good friend.
~ written with bias by his wife
The Author, grinnin': There ya go, A*K, and thank you so much for this opportunity and the support. I appreciate that you feel my work is worth the showcase of your spotlights AT THE BIJOU.
Warmest thoughts,
JDT
JDT
The Chatelaine AT THE BIJOU, smilin' large: JDT (and Mrs JDT) ... We're all feelin' the pleasure is gonna be ours with you two. Now go help yourselves to some popcorn and sit back and watch your story play. Thanks a'plenty for the honour of stagin' you! (Uh, who's gonna clean this mess up on the table?)
Posting all the fiction, all the time, rather than facets about the nature of his nature, do get welcomed in at the house of J. Dane Tyler.
~ Absolutely*Kate
and our fine staff of renown
*AT THE BIJOU*
