The Evening Man

Chapter 5

Have you ever heard of Mancini's real Italian eatery? I bet you haven't. It's the scummiest delicatessen in the entire city. Run down didn't begin to describe this vile place, where the depressed regulars showed up like clockwork to commit slow suicide through gradual arterial blockage. I honestly had no idea how it managed to stay open. It couldn't have been through quality of service, and it definitely wasn't because of the so-called food. Why so-called? Well, in my opinion, food generally has to be edible and made from animals you can identify. An opinion the owners clearly didn't share.

I'd been planning on eating my lunch at a real restaurant, when I'd received a poorly timed text to meet with Abbey at Mancini's. It was a real blow. I had a table on reserve at a nice steakhouse I attended every now and then, and I'd dressed in a nicely tailored suit and tie for the occasion. I looked good, I felt good, it was all good. Naturally, I looked as unusual in a place like Mancini's, as a wolf with a pink ribbon on its head. Blending in was out of the question: I don't even own any flannel shirts. I respected myself just a little too much for that.

Abbey had a corner booth picked out, when I walked through the door. I made my way over to her, careful to avoid stepping too close to any other tables, lest I see what they were eating. I was impressed with how packed the place was, even as I struggled to believe that people existed who hated themselves so much as to believe this swill was worth eating. If I sound like I'm being hard on this place, well, so be it. I consider myself something of a connoisseur when it came to food. Clearly, Mancini's regulars considered themselves conno-sewers. Get it? That was a play on words. I'm implying that these people are eating crap. Go, Danny, go.

Before sitting down in the booth, I plucked a newspaper from the hands of a nearby customer, and carefully began placing sections of it over the area where I'd be sitting. The paper's owner lumbered to his feet and started to utter some guttural complaints about me and my sexual orientation, but he quickly backed off when I shoved a fifty dollar bill in his face. As I sat down, I found Abbey staring at me with a raised eyebrow. To my dismay, I saw a half-eaten Reuben sandwich on a plate in front of her, and my opinion of her character took a hard hit.

“You on your way to church, Killer?” Abbey asked.

“I was on my way to Sutherland's, if you must know,” I primly replied. “Jacket and tie dress code. Is there any particular reason you're tempting fate with that thing? It's gonna stay in your bowels and nest.”

“Don't be disgusting. I love Mancini's. I eat here all the time.”

“You can't be serious. I wouldn't feed this stuff to a death row inmate, and I'm not picky about what happens to Death Row inmates.   They're terrible people.”

“Uh huh,” Abbey replied. “Sorry, I couldn't hear your hateful words over the sound of my enjoyment. This is good food. Don't kill it for me with your stuck-up, vampire mannerisms.”

“This is not good food, Laquaedo.”

“How would you know, Killer? Can you even eat?”

“Of course I can. I can do a lot of things people assume I can't. I'm walking around in broad daylight, aren't I?”

“How do you do that? I always wondered how your kind got around in the day.”

“Trade secret, Abbey. I could tell you, but then I'd have to blah-blah-blah.”

“So noted.”

“Now, do you want to tell me what I'm doing here, surrounded by the scum of the earth?” I asked.

“That seems a touch harsh, Killer,” Abbey said.