The Easy Way Out

15

At precisely 9:22 the following Tuesday night, Blake watched McQuaid emerge from the shadows, cross the parking lot, then climb the stairs to the diner's front door. The moment he stepped inside the diner, Blake wheeled the Honda out of the parking lot and across the street into Simon's Used Cars' lot.

In the diner, McQuaid leaned against the counter watching a thin 60-ish waitress bagging a Styrofoam container. Her name tag, pinned to her aqua uniform read JENNY. "Meatloaf will be up in a minute," she said with a heavily lipsticked waitress smile.

"Side of gravy?" he asked.

"I'll take care of you, hon."

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Behind the bar at Booty's, Rachel cut a lime in half, then began slicing wedges. Lou crept up, planted a thick hand on either side of her, and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"This is like some real third-grade shit." She groaned.

He made a moony face with wide eyes and his mouth in a tall oval while he pressed his pelvis against her backside.

"I'm holding a very sharp knife," she said tersely.

A collective 'Ooooooooooooo' rose from patrons seated at the bar.

On most nights, her remark would have been accompanied by a sly smile, or a wink that said 'I'm just playing' but the pleasantries were wearing thin. She wasn't in the mood, not even close. When he groped her, usually it was grab and go, with him giggling and skittering away like a fat duck, expecting her to swing a hard slap. But tonight he was showing off, his head on her shoulder, his disgusting little bulging crotch against her ass. It took every ounce of restraint to fight the urge to spin around and plunge the knife straight into one of his man boobs.

"A hot chick with a hot temper." Lou cupped his crotch and retreated. "Bad combination."

"Hey, doll," Pat called. "Gonna need the check."

When Rachel glanced at her phone and saw 9:47, she froze. "What?"

"The check," he repeated. "I need the check."

She almost forgot what to say next before she managed, "What about your crabcakes? And your club sandwich?"

"Just the check." He finished his drink.

She went to the cash register and stared at it like she'd never seen it before, her mind racing, her nerves crackling.

Pat locked her in a hard gaze and said, "Hey. You okay?"

She took a deep breath then let it drift out. "How about I box up your order for take-out? Just be a minute."

Pat consulted his TAG Heuer watch. "'kay. Let's hurry it up."

She trotted into the kitchen, perspiration glazing her forehead. To the cook, she said, "Pack the crabcakes and club."

She speed-dialed, heard Blake's phone ring twice, then cut out. She dialed again. Three rings, dead air. No voicemail. She tried a text. Failed to deliver.

With her face as white as cottage cheese, Rachel swiped a butter knife from the counter then darted out the kitchen door. Slinking through the shadows, she found Pat and Karas' glossy Lincoln. With no one around, she dropped to her knee, then unscrewed the cap from the rear tire valve, half-expecting to feel a heavy hand clamping down on her shoulder at any moment. She depressed the pin with the rounded tip of the knife, her hands shaking like she was strapped to a wood chipper. She held the knife in place for a full minute as air rushed out of the tire. She replaced the cap then charged back to the kitchen door and dialed Damon.