Gary puffed up, straightened his tie, tapped his name tag with two fingers. “Gary Wilson, floor manager, six years, and I’ll be here long after you’re gone.” Maxwell looked at the name tag, looked at Gary’s face, and something in his eyes shifted, so small that only Denise caught it. Not anger. Not hurt. Something closer to a decision being made. “Six years,” Maxwell repeated softly. “Got it.” He picked up his coffee, turned, and walked to a table near the back wall, sat down with his back to the room, set his phone on the table face down, and waited.
Maxwell sat at the back table for twelve minutes. He drank his coffee slow, ate his pie in small bites, watched the room from under the brim of his cap. Gary watched him, too, not subtly. Gary stood behind the register with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on Maxwell like a hawk tracking a rabbit across an open field. Every few seconds he’d mutter something to Denise or glance at Marshall. The message was clear. I’m watching. Don’t try anything.
Maxwell set his fork down. The pie was good, buttery crust, pecans roasted just right. Whatever was wrong with this restaurant, it wasn’t the kitchen. He stood up, carried his plate and cup to the counter, set them down gently. “Thank you. That was real good.” Denise reached for the dishes. “I’m glad you—” “Hold on.” Gary stepped forward. He planted both hands on the counter. “You’re not leaving yet.”
Maxwell looked at him. “I paid. I ate. I’m done.” “Yeah, well, I’ve been watching you.” Gary tilted his head. “Sitting back there on your phone, looking around, checking the exits.” “I was eating pie.” “Nah. I know what casing a place looks like.” The word landed like a brick. Casing, like Maxwell was a thief scouting his next hit. A woman at table six put her hand over her mouth. The man in the polo shirt shifted in his seat and stared at his plate.
“I wasn’t casing anything.” “Then you won’t mind emptying your pockets.” Gary nodded toward Marshall. “Just to make sure nothing walked off that doesn’t belong to you.” Marshall hesitated. He looked at Gary, looked at Maxwell. His jaw tightened. “Gary, I don’t think—” “I didn’t ask you to think. I asked you to do your job.” Marshall swallowed hard. He took a step closer to Maxwell. “Sir, would you mind just—” “You want me to empty my pockets.” Maxwell said it flat, not a question. “Standard procedure,” Gary said, “for situations like this.” “Situations like what?”
Gary didn’t answer. He just stared. Maxwell held his gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached into his jacket pockets. Left side first, a folded piece of paper. He set it on the counter. Right side, a set of car keys. He set those down, too. Back pocket, a leather wallet, soft from years of use. He placed it beside the rest. “That’s it.”
Gary stared at the items, picked up the wallet, opened it, thumbed through the bills inside. There were several twenties, a fifty, and what looked like a business card tucked behind the ID sleeve. Gary didn’t pull the card out. Didn’t look at the ID. He wasn’t searching for anything specific. He was searching because he could. He tossed the wallet back on the counter. It slid and almost fell off the edge. Denise caught it.