Just Dessert

A steady rain fell.

Potholes, filled with puddles of oily filth, reflected the flickering fluorescent glow from streetlights back onto the blanket of dark clouds above to mix with the occasional greenish flash. The murky shimmering cast an ambiance of ethereality only expected in purgatory… or the back end of a dream.

Not that anyone would notice. A siren sounded in the distance, but no soul walked the street this early. Most businesses closed until morning, and, hours before dawn, most people slept, finding safety behind locked doors and the ignorance of what passed in the shadows during the night.

But the lights stayed on at Martinelli’s on 53rd, home of the best peanut-free chocolate cake in town. I crossed the empty street, shaking off the weather as I reached the awning. I stop for a slice every time business brings me through.

The lingering scent of bacon and eggs hung in the air, and the tinkling bell over the door conjured memories of that old movie about angels… but the devil was an angel, too.

“I don’t care what you had to substitute,” Max Ryker shouted at the cowering cook. He stood in his old place behind the grill, gripping the grill brush in one hand as if brandishing a baseball bat.

Ryker inherited the diner when old man Martinelli passed a year ago. But Martinelli always insisted on a spotless grill, and Ryker began as the rough-and-tumble cook.

I guess some habits are hard to break.

Sinewy arms stretched the short sleeves of his starched white shirt, and just a hint of fading ink showed beneath it. He had slung his tie over his shoulder, and a worn, folded apron protected creased, black slacks. “You’re the cook, not me.”

“And it’s cooking, Sir, b-but the cake…” the new cook stammered, pushing his glasses back into place. Ryker stood a head taller than the wiry, little man, and the cook’s hunched posture only exaggerated the difference. “The truck missed a few things on the order. I…”

“I’m not interested in details,” Ryker shouted, stabbing a finger into the cook’s chest. “All I care about is that breakfast run starts in an hour, and that cake is our best seller. You have a half an hour to have a slice in front of me, or I’ll find someone who can get the job done.”

“Yes, Sir,” the cook said, hurriedly backing through the swinging door to the safety of the kitchen.

Some days, I love my job.

A young brunette with straight hair pulled into a ponytail and a name tag that read Tami (with an I) walked toward me, watching the scene. She quickly turned to face me and faked a smile as Ryker shot her a glare.

Despite how genuine her smile appeared, the fear stayed.

“Hi,” she said shakily, grabbing a menu. “Just one?”

She guided me to a booth in back without waiting for an answer.

Removing my coat and laying it in the seat beside me, I checked my pocket watch and sat with my back to the wall. “Black coffee and a slice of chocolate cake.”

Her eyes widened, and the feigned smile vanished. She chanced a glance back at Ryker who stood busy cleaning the grill. Her voice dropped almost to a whisper before saying “Sir, we…”

“I heard, and I have time before my appointment,” I said, raising a hand to stop her. “Just the coffee, for now. I can wait.”

With a sharp exhale, she mouthed a relieved thank you and hurried off. Through the window to the kitchen, I could see the cook working steadily as she spoke to him.

Old man Martinelli worked hard to establish a warm and welcoming atmosphere for all in his diner. It went with him when he passed. Everyone moved with fearful precision, as if the sword of Damocles hung above them.

Ryker lacked the people skills necessary to run the place, but old man Martinelli had no family and Ryker had worked there a few years. No one batted an eye when he showed up with the will leaving the diner to him.

The tinkling bell signaled the arrival of two more men, both built like oxen but only half as intimidating. Tami (with an I) looked to the door only a second before lowering her head as she returned with the coffee.

Ryker nodded at the two men. “Tami,” he shouted, removing the greasy apron and setting it to the side. He fixed the tie slung over his shoulder and walked around the counter, sitting on the middle stool like a king upon his throne.

“Nigel assures me it’s only a few minutes on your cake,” she said hurriedly as she set the cup on the table. “I’ll be back to check on you.” She hurried off.

“Give me good news,” Ryker said clearly, as if unconcerned if any heard.

I checked my watch again.

“Message delivered, Mr. Ryker,” the larger of the two oxen said, lifting his chin and giving a proud grin. He sported a silver front tooth, and the bulge on the bridge of his nose boasted that he was a man accustomed to ending arguments. “The old pharmacy was obviously a fire hazard. It went up like a match about thirty minutes ago.”

“Good,” Ryker said, taking a cup of coffee that Tami (with an I) offered before rushing back into the kitchen. “An example needed to be set to keep things running smooth, and this’ll serve as a warning to anyone else who decides to grow a spine.”

“Then they’ll all let us check their wiring,” Big Ox said, laughing.

“We should probably lay low a little while,” the smaller ox said.

Younger and clearly less comfortable with the current situation, he shifted nervously. His eyes darted about the room and searched the street beyond the large glass windows of the diner.

Ryker’s brow lowered. “Why? Were you seen?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“What…” Young Ox said, eyes widening as he realized the slip. “No, sir! I’m just saying that Mr. Hernández was adamant not paying protection. He’s going to know…”

Ryker stood in front of the young ox, chest swollen and looking down on him with a speed that would make a snake envious. “It doesn’t matter what Hernández knows. It’s what he can prove,” he said, finger pushed into the chest of Young Ox.

Nigel slipped softly through the swinging door from the kitchen, careful not to interrupt, but Ryker snapped his head around to glare at him. Nigel kept his head down and carried the slice of chocolate cake to the counter in front of Ryker’s stool. He placed a fork beside it and darted back to the kitchen.

Ryker returned his attention to Young Ox. “Cops don’t care what happens down here, and Martinelli’s makes me look legit,” he said. He returned to the stool and sat, polishing his fork with a paper napkin. “But the sheep need to understand that I am here to stay. This part of town belongs to me, now.”

“Yes, Mr. Ryker,” Young Ox answered quickly.

Tami (with an I) came back with a coffee pot and warmed my cup, careful not to glance at the three men. “I’m sorry about the wait and… everything. The cake is done, and Nigel is cutting your slice now.”

“Perfect. I’ll be just in time for my appointment,” I said, checking my watch. “Could I get that to go?”

She nodded, returning to the kitchen.

“You bastard!” Mr. Hernández came in screaming. His anguished cry drowned the tinkling bell. He gripped an ancient revolver in his hand. Thinning, gray hair plastered against scalp from the rain, and striped pajamas, soaking wet and near transparent, clung to his scrawny frame.

Mr. Hernández raised the revolver at Ryker. “You think you can take it all without consequences?”

The gun looked as if it had not been fired for years and showed its age, sporting patches of rust. Water dripped from the barrel. If he managed to pull the weathered trigger, there was a good chance nothing would happen… but it was still enough to force a step back from the oxen.

Ryker refused to turn.

“My father opened that pharmacy fifty years ago,” Mr. Hernández continued in a quivering voice. “That was my first job. I met my wife there. We raised a family with it…” His arm shook from rage and cold.

Ryker sat silent a moment. “It’s not as easy as you might think,” he said calmly. He set down his fork and turned on the stool to face Mr. Hernández. “Is it?”

Ryker stood. “Just a gentle squeeze and you end everything a man is,” he said, walking slowly toward Mr. Hernández. “And then you get to live with it. The thought of taking a man’s life is almost more terrifying than dying.”

Ryker stopped within inches of Mr. Hernández, the muzzle pressed to his chest. “I know,” he said. “I’ve taken a lot of lives.”

He ripped the rusted revolver from Mr. Hernández and stepped nose-to-nose in one swift move. “You think I’m afraid of the reaper?

Mr. Hernández sank into a sobbing heap as Ryker returned to his stool. Big Ox stepped behind Mr. Hernández, gripping him by the elbows and hoisting him to his feet.

Ryker watched thoughtfully for a moment.

“This calls for a stronger message,” Ryker finally said, tossing the rusted revolver to Young Ox, turning to cut into the cake. “Get rid of him, but make sure he’s found.”

“But, Sir, that’ll look suspicious, so soon after his place…” Young Ox began, but grew quiet as Ryker shot him a glare.

“The man lost everything and is clearly distraught,” Ryker said with a wicked grin. “He took an old gun out into the rain and ended it in the park. Sad, but it happens.”

I checked my watch as Ryker savored that first bite.

Ryker dropped his fork to the floor as Tami (with an I) came through the swinging door, styrofoam container in hand. She stopped and looked over at him.

“Are you okay, Boss?” Big Ox asked with a look of genuine concern.

Ryker gripped the counter, eyes widening. He began to cough and gasp.

“I think he’s choking,” Tami (with an I) shouted, but her words drew longer with each sound she uttered. She still spoke the last syllable as I stood from my seat.

Time.

Taking the last swallow of coffee, I laid a twenty beneath the cup and walked over to her. She stood statuesque by the time I took the cake from her hand. “Old man Martinelli has been waiting all year to see you again,” I said as I grabbed a plastic fork from the kitchen window and strolled over to face Ryker. “He's eager to discuss the way you two parted ways.”

Though Ryker sat frozen, terrified eyes darted about. The floor began to crack beneath him, and a glow erupted from the opening. Yellowish smoke poured from the crevices, the putrid smell of Sulphur replacing the scent of bacon and egg.

“Peanut allergies are a bitch, Maxwell,” I said, opening the cake. “You should know better than not to ask what substitutions the cook makes.” The gaping opening beneath Ryker grew larger, and the flames grew more intense as I took a bite and walked away. I swallowed, stopping at the door to add, “Best cake in town, though.”

Mr. Hernández, Nigel, and Tami (with an I) watched in a combination of horror and relief as Ryker drew a last struggling breath, and the oxen rushed to him as he fell face first into his slice of chocolate cake. But the terrified screams of Maxwell Ryker being drug below echoed behind me. I smiled and gave an angel his wings.

I love my job.