Topic started by Writer (@ pm1.maproi.com) on Wed Jul 7 22:45:42 EDT 2004.
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Alfred Jones looked around him, nervously adjusting the band of his rolex. Clutched in his left hand was a small leather briefcase.
"Smoking or non-smoking?" the cashier asked, cocking his head to one side.
"Smoking -- I have a reservation with Mr. Dalton for eight o'clock. He said he'd meet me here," Alfred replied. A man with a stern expression on his face next to him stood erect with both hands clasped behind his back. A small bulge poked out of his coat and he tucked it back in. The cashier paused for a moment before replying, "Ah yes, Mr. Dalton. He called in already and said he would be a little late but to show you to the back room." He motioned behind him to a marble staircase. Alfred nodded to the man next to him and they followed the cashier upstairs.
The back room had two rows of darkened booths, each closed off with their own curtain door and lamp. All but one of the booths had their lamps turned off.
"Here we are. One of our more private booths. Do you wish for an appetizer or some wine while you wait?" he asked as soon as they sat down.
"Escargot? A serving of that would be fine." The cashier nodded and sidestepped out of the booth, the curtain swinging back down behind him. The man turned to Alfred and took out a pack of cigarettes.
"Mr. Jones, would you mind if I smoked here or would you want me to go outside?" he asked.
"Of course you can smoke here Ed. We are in the smoking section." Ed lit his cigarette and took a puff.
The lamp in their booth had an old bulb and the light was dim here, even though it was at its brightest setting. Alfred's eyes grew accostomed to the dark in a moment and he began to settle down. The smoke helped to calm him as well. He put his briefcase on the table and checked to make sure it was still locked.
"Something wrong Mr. Jones?" Ed asked.
Alfred shook his head."It's just a bad feeling. Don't worry about it."
Suddenly the curtains were pulled back and a waiter with a black tuxedo was revealed, holding a platter with one hand above his head. He walked into the booth and set it down upon the table.
The platter contained a large supply of steaming dead snails. Alfred looked up at the waiter. "Thank you."
The waiter turned to Ed. "Is your name Edward Meeks?"
Ed nodded slowly.
"You have a telephone call downstairs. I think its urgent sir."
Ed looked at Alfred for a moment, then looked back at the waiter.
"Tell them to leave a message." he grunted. Alfred took his briefcase down and put it underneath the table behind his legs. The waiter put a hand to his ear, "I beg your pardon sir?" Ed's stern expression grew frustrated.
"I said tell them to leave a message." Ed replied in a slightly louder tone.
"Sir, I am little hard of hearing. Dreadfully sorry. If you could repeat that one more time?"
"I said, TELL THEM TO LEAVE A MESSAGE." Ed said once more, standing up, bumping against the table. A bead of sweat appeared at Alfred's temple. The waiter finally nodded and turned to leave. Ed still had an angry expression on his face. He looked down to Alfred with a frown.
Suddenly the waiter whipped around, this time with a pistol in his hand, a silencer strapped tightly to its barrel. Ed put a hand inside his jacket when a muffled cough went off in the tiny booth. Ed stopped. So did Alfred's heart for a moment. The muffled cough came again and this time Ed's chest started to turn dark red. His expression was now emotionless and his hand dropped from his jacket.
"Please sir, sit back down." The waiter said in a calm voice without moving the gun. Ed fell backwards into his seat. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek. The waiter sat down next to him and pulled a 9mm berretta out of his jacket pocket. Alfred's eyes were as large as the platter on the table and he sat motionless. The waiter covered him with both guns and sat there.
A minute later a fat man walked into the booth and sat down next to Alfred. The man wore a suit that probably cost more than Alfred's rolex and had a thin chestnut beard. His eyes were black like a hawk and his lips were full and red. His hands were newly manicured but were large enough to grip a basketball. This fat man was Mr. Dalton. He looked at the waiter.
"Does he have it on him?" he asked. The waiter slowly nodded, his eyes not moving off Alfred for a moment. Mr. Dalton looked behind Alfred and then under the table, a hard feat for a man his size. His face lit up and groped with his manicured hands for the briefcase. Alfred remained was motionless. His face was dripping with sweat and he was fighting back a scream. Mr. Dalton came back up with the case in his hand and he grinned at Alfred. Then he took his hand in his and shook it gently.
"I'm glad we conclude our business with no disagreements Mr. Jones." he said. He moved back and forth and finally got himself unwedged from the table. Alfred's facing followed him toward the door. Before leaving Mr. Dalton tipped his head once, and then with a swish of the curtains he was gone. Alfred turned back to look at the waiter, who had stripped his clothes and now was dressed in a polo shirt and jeans. He watched as the man put the berretta in his belt.
Then for the final time in that booth another muffled cough echoed and Alfred fell face first into his platter of escargo. The former waiter wiped off the pistol with a napkin and dropped it on the table. Then he left the booth, the curtains closing behind him.
End
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