Teamwork / Chapter One

After much talk between myself and two fellow fictors, a multi-author novel project is now underway. Tentatively titled Check, Please, we're alternating chapters and smashing them together, hopefully with stupendous results. Eric W. stepped up to the plate in the leadoff position, and his contribution, the first chapter, is included below. We'll see how this works out...

I

You heard the man, give him your wallet.
That's not what he said at all.
Two grimaces. The man's skin is pinched at the neck and jawline.
Of course it is, you nit, now give him your wallet.
That's not what I heard you say, is that what you said?
No. I said wallet. Just wallet. A short man, galoshes. An umbrella. The rain, always the rain.
I can't believe this shit. Indignation is hard on most faces, no exception here.
The first man is Derek Unger. He was born in a hospital in Brussels, but only because his father was stationed there in the war. He's bored and his face is pockmarked. He spent years in front of the mirror perfecting a smile that has worked its way into any number of women's pants.
The second is Lush. That's what he tells people when he meets them. He has a pipe that his grandfather gave him from after the same war that Derek's father fought in. The two men have no idea they have this connection. Right now, their concern is with Derek's wallet.
Wallet. The short man repeats himself. His hand is like a badgers paw, maybe a raccoon. Perhaps a badger when it's dry. A raccoon's timidity, in this downpour, it's understandable.
Why would I give you my wallet, will you answer that? Lush's lips smack as he says this. His breath is hot, and there's a hint of chili that makes him feel like the bile is rising in the back of his throat. This doesn't really happen until there's a gun in his mouth. Later.
He doesn't need to explain anything to you, man. Give him your wallet.
Just shut the fuck up, man! I'm asking this guy questions and you keep answering. What do you have to do with this anyway?
Wallet, Derek.
Derek had no idea the short man knew his name. He's visibly surprised. Shaken more than he would have been if the man hadn't know. That's obvious, perhaps, but it works. He hands over his wallet. The shorter man keeps his hands under the protective circle of his umbrella's shade.
Lush has a piece of pipe, of the metal variety, tucked in his jacket, which he brings to bear against Derek’s skull at the completion of the request.
Yeah?
Yeah it's here. The shorter man re-folds a piece of paper he's just finished examining from Derek’s wallet. He drops it into the pocket of his rain jacket.
---
What'll it be gentlemen?
Two eggs, over easy. Grits, hold the hash browns.
How do you want your toast?
Held as well.
No toast?
No toast. Thank you.
And you?
Lush sets his menu back between the ketchup and the mustard. The shorter man orders a coffee and a side of cottage cheese. Lush hates cottage cheese, shakes his head.
And your friend? He doesn't look too hungry. Aspirin?
Yeah, four aspirin. A second glass of water would be nice too. Oh, actually, cranberry juice. Lush loves cranberry juice.
Alright, back in a moment, gentlemen.
Derek’s head droops. He's got a spot of drool at the corner of his mouth. His hood has been forcefully held up to cover the purplish egg rising on his shaved head.
So. Lenny.
The short man is Lenny. Shit-Eating Grin Lenny is what his cousin's called him when they used to play rough at the farm his grandparents owned.
So. Lenny.
Lenny is clearly not paying attention to Derek. He's staring at the spot of drool on Derek’s face.
Clean that off, Lush.
What?
Clean that off. That spot of drool.
Lush checks his lips. Lenny isn't pointed at Derek, and Lush is self-conscious. This is fairly typical. Lenny points at Derek, who's mouth is starting to gape open a bit.
What? Oh. No thanks, man.
Do it.
Fuck you.
Lenny slams his fork into Lush’s hand. Lush yells.
This is a good opportunity to take a gander at the rest of the diner. There are four other patrons, none at the same table. The waitress, Miranda, has her hair in a bun. She loves eating the frosting off of cinnamon rolls and her husband of three years left her for a job in another state. Chasing the dream is how he referenced it when he left her. She's staring at the men’s ticket. Hard.
The three men are now all wide awake (though Lenny remains stone-faced). Derek rips the fork out of his hand and throws it, in a slightly offhand manner, at Lenny who dodges it. Hard to do in a small space. The fork thuds into his chest, and then falls softly onto the padding of Lenny's side of the booth.
It has blood on tips of the prongs.