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, 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. "What's this?" Gary picked up the folded paper. "Personal." "Not in my restaurant, it isn't." Gary started to unfold it.
Maxwell's hand came down on the paper, firm, not violent, just enough.
"I said it's personal." The two men locked eyes. The paper sat between them on the counter, the acquisition agreement, though Gary would never know that. Not yet.
Gary let go, smiled, stepped back. "Fine. You know what? I've been polite long enough." He turned to the register, punched it open, pulled out the remaining change, the four fifty he'd shorted Maxwell earlier. Nickels, dimes, a few quarters.
He held them in his fist, looked Maxwell dead in the eye, and threw them on the floor. The coins exploded across the tile. Some spun, some bounced. One quarter rolled all the way to the baseboard and stopped against a chair leg. A nickel landed on a woman's shoe. She jerked her foot back like it had burned her.
"There's the rest of your change." Gary's voice filled the whole room. "Now get down on your knees and pick it up, monkey."
The word hit the air like a slap. Denise covered her mouth with both hands. Her eyes were wide and wet. Marshall took a step back. The couple by the window stood up, not to intervene, but to leave. They gathered their coats without looking at anyone and walked out the front door.
An older man at table two, silver hair, expensive watch, looked at Gary and then at Maxwell. He shook his head. But he didn't shake it at Gary. He shook it at Maxwell. Like he was the problem. Like a man standing still and being humiliated was somehow causing a scene.
"You heard me." Gary pointed at the floor. "Pick it up." Maxwell looked down at the coins. He could see his own reflection in the polished tile, distorted, stretched, cut in half by a crack in the grout.
He looked at the coins. He looked at Gary's shoes, polished loafers, pointed toe, tapping impatiently on the hardwood.
He didn't kneel. He didn't raise his voice. He looked up at Gary and said, "Who's your regional director?" Gary laughed. Actually laughed. Head back, chest shaking.
"Oh, that's rich. You're going to call corporate on me?" He spread his arms wide. "Go ahead, call whoever you want. I've been here six years, pal. You think anyone's going to take your word over mine?"
"I didn't ask if they'd believe me. I asked for a name." Gary waved his hand. "Patricia Davis, regional director. Knock yourself out."
Maxwell pulled out his phone, unlocked it, tapped three times, held it to his ear.
The whole room was watching. The diners, Denise, Marshall, Gary, even the kitchen staff had drifted toward the window in the swinging door, peering through the glass. The call connected. Maxwell spoke six words. Quiet. Even. Like he was ordering coffee.
"Patricia. It's Maxwell, Magnolia Grill. Now." He hung up. 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."