Page 6 of By A Thread

“Sit back down,” Charming’s lady friend insisted, pulling him back into the booth. “You’re causing a scene.”

I left them, grabbed the check for Twelve, and made serious eye contact with them while I thanked them profusely for coming in. It wasn’t going to be a good tip. I had an instinct about these things since waitressing and bartending had become my main source of income. But at least they weren’t going to walk out on the check.

“I can take that for you now if you’re ready,” I offered.

The guy reluctantly pulled out a wallet on a chain and opened it. “Keep the change,” he squeaked.

Two dollars.It was probably all they could afford, and I totally got that. But I needed to find real work… like six months ago.

“Thanks, guys,” I said brightly and shoved the money in my apron.

Charming was sitting, arms folded, staring down at his untouched FU pizza while his date daintily cut hers into bite-sized pieces.

“George, Table Eight wants to talk to you.”

“Now what the fuck did you do?” he snarled, dropping his fork in the double helping of pasta primavera he’d made himself. He acted as if I’d been nothing but a troublemaker, and I considered making him his own pizza. I wondered if the twelve-inch pie was big enough for “dumbass” spelled out in sausage.

“The guy was being a jerk,” I told him, knowing full well George wouldn’t care. He’d side with the ass. Asses liked other asses.

He hefted his bulk off the rickety stool that was going to give up the fight against his 300 pounds any day now. At five and a half feet tall, he was a grumpy beach ball of a human being. “Let’s go. Be fucking polite,” he said, wiping his hands on the sauce-stained apron. George lumbered through the swinging doors, and I followed.

“Thank you for coming to George’s Village Pizza. I’m George,” he said, all olive oily charm now. The guy was a dick to his employees, his vendors, hell, even his wife. But to a diner with a fat wallet? George was almost sort of friendly. “I understand there’s a problem.”

Without saying a word, Charming spun his pizza plate around.

George’s eyes narrowed.

“Is this supposed to be some kinda joke, Ollie?”

Great. I could see the vein in his neck.

That wasn’t a good sign. I’d seen it twice before. Once when he’d fired his delivery driver for stopping to help direct traffic at an accident scene and again when a server had slipped on a grease spill in the back and sprained her wrist. He fired her on the spot and said if she tried to collect workers’ comp he’d burn down her mother’s house.

The server was his niece. Her mother was George’s sister.

I shrugged. “Maybe that’s just how the pepperonis arranged themselves.”

“This kind of service is unacceptable,” Charming insisted.

“Of course. Of course,” George agreed, all apologies. “And I promise you the situation will be rectified.”

“She should be fired,” Charming said, leveling me with a cold look. “She’s a detriment to your business. I’m never coming back here.”

And there it was.

I knew I was out of a job.

“Good,” I said. “You should stick to torturing servers uptown.”

“’Ay! Not in my restaurant,” George bellowed. His third chin vibrated with rage. If I didn’t get out now, I might cause a coronary, and I didn’t really want that on my conscience. I also really didn’t want to have to give this guy mouth-to-mouth. Wisely, I zipped my lips.

“I really think this is an overreaction,” the woman said smoothly.

“No. It’s not,” George and Charming said together.

They could get Team Asshole jerseys.

“Ollie, get your things. You’re fired.”