Bruce, the aging bartender, might look up for a moment. But finding that even if there was foul play at hand, there could be nothing done at the moment because of all of the guests seated around the horse-shoe shaped bar, and remind himself to investigate later on at closing time. By the end of his shift, there wouldn’t be an ounce of suspicion in his mind and the whole matter was thus forgotten.
“Oh, we just love coming to Corrotto’s,” said an enthusiastic overweight man in his fifties. He could only sit at a table because the coral-colored booths that lines the walls of the restaurant impeded his “growing out instead of growing up,” as was his euphemism. Carlos stood above the table with his hands clasped behind his back, and smiled.
“Well I see you here nearly every week, Mr. Johnston! Next time you might even get an employee discount, you are here more often than them!” Carlos nudged the man’s pudgy arm as he attempted one of his acquiescing but altogether dim-witted jokes. It was what got him through the night with these types… The man’s moustache curled up into a moon shape and his non-existent hairline revealed wrinkles trying to push through all of the fat. His wife sipped her Sirah with ancient scrawny fingers, and shrewdly chuckled behind her polished glass.
The man roared like a deflating bellow at Carlos. The commotion of this squeezed tiny drops of liquid through the man’s pores on his forehead, and Carlos thought he might stroke.
“Alright, Mr. Johnston. Go ahead and get back to your spaghetti. I’ll leave you alone for a while.”
“Right-o, Carlos!” The man sopped the sweat from his puffy brow and continued eating. His wife watched, nursing her glass.
Nearby, a very busy Mitzi dealt with the same type of customers: fat, obnoxious, rich, but cheap. He set down the remaining iced-tea on the table before a couple in their late sixties and began the spiel:
“And, now, Sir, what can I offer the lady to eat this evening?”
The man brought his spectacles down towards his thin little nose and studied the menu. “Why do they keep it so dark in here?” he said, straining his eyes.
“We try to maintain a certain… atmosphere, Sir. I’ll see if I can talk to my manager.”
“Right,” the old man said condescendingly. “Well, I think we will begin with the crab puffs.”
“Absolutely, sir. And for your entrees?” Mitzi scribbled a nearing-illiterate “cp” on his server’s paper.
“ We’ll split” – oh those awful words! To split an entrée meant a disappointing ticket total, which of course meant a disappointing tip –“the eggplant parmesean.”
Mitzi tried not to wince, and muttered through clenched teeth, “Yes, Sir. Now that comes with a soup or a salad and a side dish.”
“Yes.” The man looked down on towards his menu again. Mitzi pondered on whether or not the man would actually find the place in which the soups or salads on resided on the main – in plain black-and-white – and then how long it might actually take to decide which one his wife might want.
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