Gary snorted. “First-name basis with the regional director? Sure, buddy.” He turned to Marshall and jerked his thumb at Maxwell. “Get him out of here. I’m done playing.” Marshall didn’t move. “Marshall, I said get him out.” “Gary,” Marshall’s voice was low, “maybe we should just wait.” “Wait for what?” Marshall didn’t answer. He’d heard the tone of that phone call. Six words. No explanation. No begging. That wasn’t the voice of a man filing a complaint. That was the voice of a man giving an order.
Gary didn’t hear it, or maybe he did and his pride wouldn’t let him care. He turned back to Maxwell. “You’ve got thirty seconds to walk out that door or I’m calling the real police. Not your fake corporate fairy godmother. The real police.” Maxwell put his phone back in his pocket, picked up his wallet, picked up his keys, left the folded paper on the counter. Then he pulled out a chair and sat down. “I’ll wait,” he said.
Gary’s face went red. His fists tightened at his sides. He opened his mouth to say something. And headlights swept across the front windows. A black SUV pulled into the parking lot, fast. The engine cut. A door slammed. Heels clicked on pavement, quick and sharp, getting louder. The front door swung open. Patricia Davis came through the door like a woman whose house was on fire.
She was mid-fifties, sharp gray blazer, reading glasses pushed up on her head. Her heels hit the hardwood fast. Click, click, click. And she was already scanning the room before the door swung shut behind her. Gary straightened up, smoothed his tie, put on his best manager face. He knew Patricia. She visited the location once a quarter, gave him satisfactory reviews, signed off on his schedules. He figured this was about the complaint. Some angry customer had gotten through to corporate and now he’d have to explain himself. Nothing he hadn’t handled before. A little charm, a little spin. He’d done it with Phil Keaton a dozen times.
He stepped forward. “Patricia, hey, listen, I can explain.” She walked right past him. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t even register his voice. Her eyes were locked on the man in the worn canvas jacket sitting at the back table with his hands folded. Gary stopped mid-sentence. His mouth hung open for a half second before he caught it.
She stopped in front of Maxwell and the whole room watched her face change. The rushed anxious expression melted into something else, something that looked a lot like fear. Not fear of danger. Fear of failure. The kind of fear that hits when you realize your boss just saw exactly what you let happen on your watch. “Mr. Owens.” She said it clear enough for every table to hear. “I am so sorry. I came as fast as I could.”
“Mr. Owens.” The name floated across the dining room like smoke. Gary blinked. His hand, still half raised from his attempted greeting, dropped to his side. The couple at table three looked at each other. The woman’s lips parted. Denise’s hand froze on the espresso machine mid-wipe, cloth pressed against steel, completely still. Marshall took a full step backward like the floor had shifted under him. The older man with the silver watch, the one who’d shaken his head at Maxwell, slowly set his fork down and stared.