Carry Out

“Let’s just say you’ve reached your deductible.” He struck his hand out, holding a small, black notebook wound tight by a leather fashion. “All the details are inside. You have a half hour to memorize them. Then I’ll come back in, make sure you’re ready, and we’ll cook it together.” He looked to a sink in the corner, a pitch of lighter fluid sitting where the soap would be. The drain was covered in soot.

I stood weakly, hesitating as he motioned again with the book. I took it and sat on the toilet seat, gripping the circumstance. “It gets easier,” he said, “Anyway, you’re lucky. I mean, you really messed up. If your family wasn’t owed a favor… well. You’re lucky, you know.” He turned and stepped out, the sound of cars skating the highway ripped to silence as the door closed and the lock clicked.

* * *

“Step one,” I whispered to myself, “the restaurant.” I pulled onto 65, heading towards the dull shine of the city. The golden hour showed brilliant and salmon red against a low cloud cover—night was coming. “The restaurant..” I repeated. My tongue was leathery, my throat dry as I pulled out my phone and dialed the number. It rang. “Good evening! Thanks for calling Milo’s. This is Louis, how can I help you?”

“I need to place an order for carry out,” I croaked.

“Okay, and what’s a good name for the order?”

“Declan?” I said. The name tasted new and unfitting.

“Declan, okay. Are you sure?” The restauranteur laughed on the other end of the phone.

“Yeah.. yeah for Declan, please.” I said.

“Okay. Just makin’ a joke, sir. What can we get started for you?”

“I’d like the penne alfredo.”

“The penne? Okay. Anything else?”

“—Substitute farfalle, please.” The air hung limp, poised to be cut. His voice stiffened.

“Yes, of course. Substitute farfalle. We’ll have that ready for you in fifteen min—” Another voice came muted then, cutting Louis off. It sounded like a hand covered the receiver. “—excuse me. Twenty. In twenty minutes.”

* * *

“Valet, sir?”

“Yeah, but.. keep it running,” I said, “I’ll be right back.” I swung my feet out and stepped the curb. The neon sign splashed faint green on the pavement before me and the revolving door stood motionless. I pushed the handle and when I heard the air suction out and the door feathers catch, I paused in the middle. The air grew stale and so did the movement behind the glass. “I don’t have to do this..” I thought, “I could—”

“Hey!” A man banged on the door behind me. “You’ll have to pay rent, you stay in there any longer. Come on.”

I turned, swallowing hard, and pushed. The door spun another quarter-turn to the restaurant’s foyer where a bowtied young man greeted me—Louis.

“Carry out. For Declan,” I said.

“One moment, please.” He turned and disappeared behind the cook line.

In the foyer’s corner, a man in richer bowtie and suit spoke with two guests. His jaw was hard, like an early sapien, his features Mediterranean. His eyes were black under thick brows, and his voice carried—it clapped like an audience.

“I import my beef. American cows are as anxious as American people. The skin goes tight across their faces, they hurry nowhere, they can’t keep calm under pressure,” he explained with his hands, turning his gaze to me. I recognized him, then. We had spoken only once on a burner. “It spoils the meat,” he said, staring at me, “And it’s bad for business.”

“Keep calm under pressure?” One of the guests said, chuckling. “When is a cow under any pressure, Milo?”

He smiled his over-white teeth, still staring at me. “When there’s a captive bolt between its eyes, of course.”

“—Sir?” I started, turning. “Your carry out.” Louis stood before me, holding a white bag with the restaurant logo. “Enjoy your farfalle, Mr. Declan. And safe travels.” He passed me the bag, his face neutral. I took it with wet hands and looked again to the corner. Milo had turned to other guests, talking noticeably quieter now.

* * *

The alley was dim and unassuming and steam rose from the manhole cover. I cut the engine and peered around the industrial trash can, looked in my rearview, catching a glimpse of myself. My eyes were bagged and hair clung to my forehead. Pulling the white bag onto my lap, I ripped the staple holding it shut and pulled out the brown box. Breathlessly, I unfit the clasp and peeled back the folds.

“Step one… the restaurant,” I whispered. The two stacks were held by gold-white paper fittings that read “$10,000” and between them a passport book and several folded papers, a hard plastic card with my picture—“William Declan” it said. I took a long breath.

“On to step two."