Page 71 of Thug

“I had a Reuben,” Swag said. “Check on that, too. Fifteen bucks with fries, fucker better be good.”

“I’ll get on it right after I get Stoney’s order in. There’s one of me and thirty of you cock suckers.”

Swag chuckled. “Gray ain’t got no problems when she—”

“Go fuck yourself,” I said. “I’m not Gray.”

He leaned to the side and looked at my ass. “That’s obvious.”

I rushed past half a dozen tables, all of which wanted something or another. I waved them off and promised to return in a minute. Rubber-legged and confused as hell, I stumbled to the bar.

I glanced at Panzer and I let out a sigh. “Pitcher of whatever Stoney’s drinking.”

Obviously enjoying himself, he was smiling like the cat that ate the canary. “What’s he drinking?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not the bartender. You’re the one pouring the shit.”

He gave me a shitty look. “I don’t know who gets what. You order it, I hand it to you. That’s how this works.”

“Budweiser.” I gestured toward the row of clean pitchers. “Pitcher of Bud.”

Panzer lifted his chin. “Stoney!”

“Yo!” Stoney said from across the bar.

“What are you drinking?” Panzer shouted.

Stoney raised the empty pitcher. “Nothing. We’re out.”

“What were you drinking?”

“The Dragon.”

“He’s drinking that Dragoon IPA,” Panzer said, reaching for a clean pitcher. “Difference between it and Bud is about the same as the difference between a cumquat and a roller skate.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m just saying.” He put the pitcher beneath the tap and began filling it. “Any food orders?”

“Oh shit,” I said. “I need to check on somebody’s burger.”

I rushed to the kitchen. Gray was at the fryer, pulling out a basket of shrimp. Beneath the warmers on the stainless-steel table a dozen plates of food were growing old.

I stepped in front of the warming table, hoping to block her view. “How’s it going?” I asked, hoping to distract her from the fact that I was doing an awful job.

She gestured to the food behind me. “If that sits there very much longer, they’re going to think I’m a shitty cook. I’m not a shitty cook. You, mister, could very well be a shitty waitress. Oh, wait. You’re a waiter.” Still holding the basket of shrimp over the fryer, she shrugged. “Waiter, waitress, doesn’t matter.”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“You know I’m joking, right?”

It didn’t matter. I was going a piss-poor job, and I knew it.

“Joking?” I looked the food over. It all looked the same. “Yeah. What goes where?”

“Well, you’re supposed to put a table number on the ticket. I guess you could write their name on it. None of those tickets have anything on them. I was going to say something, but I’ve been slammed since that second wave came in. Tickets are under the plates, but they won’t do you much good.”

“Table number?”