The Most Dangerous Thing - Laura Lippman [59]
He allows himself these stories, then he goes home, where his house is a mess and his wife slumps on the sofa and there’s a faint smell, something dirty. Have the boys adopted a dog or a cat against his wishes? One day he’ll tear the house apart, find out what they’re hiding from him. They can’t be laying out for pet food, not now. He’s a good guy. He deserves a break. He has given his children everything—everything—and they don’t seem to know or care. He watches this new late show every night, the one about the hostages, counting off the days. He would have thought the whole thing would be over in a week, maybe two, but now the days are in the triple digits. Where’s John Wayne when you need him? Dead of cancer, going on a year now.
John Wayne, the good old Duke, is what got Tim canned at Hutzler’s last year. Tim’s stupid faggot of a boss, embarrassed by being one-upped on his knowledge of movies, joked they were going to rename the Orange County airport John Wayne Terminal. Tim honestly doesn’t remember what happened next, but his coworkers say he literally went over the desk, almost cleared it in one leap. They had to slap him in the face until he let go of that pencil dick’s pencil neck.
Chapter Eighteen
Spring 1980
Rita sizes up the customers left in her section. Two young lovers. A middle-aged man, alone, stretching his coffee and cigarette. Wherever he lives, he doesn’t want to go there. Three kids in surgical scrubs, too tired to eat. The man will tip well. The lovers—that can go a lot of ways. They could be a new item, and he’ll want to impress her. Or they could be a new item and she’ll be insecure, wonder aloud if he’s leaving a big tip because he thinks the waitress is cute. Most women who have put in their time waiting tables, they don’t let their boyfriends or husbands get away with undertipping, while women who have never carried a tray get all huffy if they think the tip is too big. As for the young almost doctors—they’ll do their best, and their best will probably be about 10 percent. They will rationalize that their tab is mostly beer, as if that made it any easier to transport to the table, that their food was only so-so, even if it did get there hot and fast, which is all Rita should be judged for. Besides, everyone knows the food at Connolly’s is mediocre. It’s almost a point of pride. The food sucks, yet everyone still eats here. Even the mayor comes here regular. He was in earlier this evening, with his mother. Now he’s a good tipper, but Rita didn’t have him tonight. The manager spreads him around.
Rita has been at Connolly’s only five years, but she feels as if she’s part of the fixtures, a piece of the original building, in place when it opened, whenever that was. Back in the 1930s? 1920s? A long time ago. Like a lot of things in Rita’s life, its heyday was over long before she grabbed a piece of it. Oh, it’s still crowded, still beloved, but with the development of the Inner Harbor now the big thing, the owners have been put on a month-to-month lease. A smart cookie would get out before she’s forced out.
Rita is a smart cookie, but she’s also a very tired cookie these days. She has enough on her plate, what with needing to find a new place to live, pronto. She can’t make the rent on the town house if Rick is moving out. He’s going to pay child support—Mr. Good Guy, bully for you, you’re so swell—but, man, that’s not the same as splitting all the living expenses. Based on what she’s seen so far, she’s going to be forced to take a two-bedroom, make Mickey double up with her, at least until Joey gets a little older. There’s also no way she’s going to be able to stay in the city school district.
Mickey seems okay about changing schools, almost eager for it. Rita had steeled herself for a big showdown,