The bell above the door jingles to an empty building. Frank takes care into wiping his feet dry on the welcome mat before entering the diner. He stares at the design stitched into the mat. Dry shoes are good news. Frank agrees. He looks up and scans the diner. Nobody.
He walks towards the bar counter and sits on a circular swivelling stool bolted to the ground. Frank turns each direction for a brief moment. He likes the stool. He notices a bell on the far side of the counter. He gets up and walks towards the far end. One push of a finger and the small bell rings in a high pitch. Frank backs away and lets the sound resonate through the silence. He moves forward and brings his hand over it for a second ring when he hears the sound of a door opening. A faint grunt in the back kitchen.
Frank goes around the bar counter and peers into the open kitchen area to see who is there. A small woman who Frank thinks is most likely a waitress is dragging a large box into the kitchen. Frank looks back at the empty dining area. His case file is sitting on the bar counter, closed. He looks back towards the waitress as she continues to drag the large box through the kitchen floor.
She stops and exhales sharply.
"Are you going to help me or just stare?"
Frank immediately rushes to lend a hand with the box.
"Yeah. Uh, sorry. I wasn't sure if there was anyone in here so—"
They both lift up the box at two opposite ends and place it on a table. The watiress brushes her hair back and looks at Frank.
"Four in the morning? I'm surprised its not packed."
Frank scratches his head, lifting up his fedora revealing his dark, matted hair.
"I just came in for some coffee. Four in the morning, like you said."
"Of course."
She wipes her hands together and goes towards the bar counter with Frank. She goes to the coffee machine that Frank seemed to not notice when he walked in. He was too busy drying his shoes and ringing a bell. He goes back to his seat on the counter and folds his hands over the manila file lying flat on the table. He can still smell some smoke left over from the burnt areas of the folder. The waitress' back is turned but Frank begins to get the feeling that she can smell it too. It wouldn't make sense since the file has been exposed to outside air--damp, wet and dirty as it may be--but Frank is sure the smell just remains in his nostrils. Everything seems to be remaining in Frank. He can't seem to get any of it out.
The waitress slides a cup of coffee down towards Frank with expert precision. The black coffee splashes in the cup only a small amount, not enough to overflow onto the plate below. Frank's eyes follow it down towards his hand, as he stops it with one finger. He looks back up and the waitress has already headed back into the kitchen. Frank looks at the blackness of his coffee. He sees his reflection. He could be worse of wear. Maybe not. Frank doesn't know anymore. He opens the file.
Daisy's calf. Frank's best friend for the past two days. What's gone of Daisy's calf is Frank's most hated enemy. Caulder and the warehouse. The Man and the message. Staircases and expired visas. Frank is not looking at the paperwork in front of him anymore. His eyes are heavy; falling down. Deep, deep down. Dream-like.
A banging bell. Frank's eyes widen. He repositions himself on the swivelling stool. He stopped swivelling. He thought it inappropriate now. His coffee is still steaming. It floats high into the air. Smoke from a barrel. Before he risks anymore loss of consciousness, he bears the extreme heat of his coffee and takes a large sip. His tongue burns for a few seconds. His mind recalibrates.
Frank looks towards the door, and follows a man in a long coat heading towards the far end of the counter. He bangs on the tiny bell sitting atop. The waitress pops up from the kitchen floor to the open window of the bar counter.
"Yes? What? Stop hitting that!"
"Yeah, sorry--do you have any meat?"
"What?"
"Meat? Like red meat. Juicy and fresh. Meat."
"We have burgers. Cooks aren't in though. We only serve coffee late hours."
The man is sweating profusely. It wasn't rain. Frank could tell. This man smelled. Smelled like sweat. Possibly something more. He was not just wet from rain though. His face was incredibly red. Hair more matted than Frank's. Frank had not taken off his fedora yet. He didn't want to. This man had no hat though. His hair was short and cropped; professional almost. But it became unkempt in the rain, or perhaps during whatever he was doing. His face looked like as if he had just run a marathon. The waitress noticed this too.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I just want meat, God damn it!"
The man slams his fist on the bar counter. Franks notices his hands. Brownish-red. Hands of the Man.
"Hon, we don't have any meat right now. And it looks like you don't need coffee either, so stop disturbing our customers and go home."
She points to Frank. The man looks at him. He sees the man's face clearer. His teeth are shivering and his eyes are visibly bloodshot. Drug addict, maybe. The teeth are surprsingly yellow. Frank would imagine his breath not being much better. Under his long coat is a white uniform. Frank cannot make it out. He doesn't want to stare at the man any longer.
Frank gives a single wave and looks down at his coffee once more, taking another long sip. He doesn't care about burning his tongue.
"No, you don't understand! I need meat, lady!"
He leans closer towards the counter. Frank sits up and watches the man. He has a peculiar feeling about this. The waitress comes out of the kitchen to the bar counter.
"We don't serve any right now. Leave, or I'm calling the police."
"Give me...some f-fucking meat."
His finger pointed at the waitress catches Frank's attention more than most of this man's growing aggressiveness or apparent descent from proper hygiene. The finger is odd, as Frank can best describe it. His nail is long, but broken. His hand is bandaged at the palm, stained brownish-red, like the rest of his hand. Frank can tell it is fresher though. The colour of his hand seems to have settled in long ago. This bandaged stain was more recent. The whole finger seems wrong. Seems off. Frank gets up from his seat and starts approaching the man.
"Hey, do you want meat?"
"Yes! Yes! Do you h-have any? Meat? Y-yeah?"
"No, I don't. But if you wait a while, I can get you some. Does that sound good?"
Frank has one arm outstretched in compliance. He puts on a friendly face, which contrasts greatly from his usual calm, cool demeanour. The one any private detective should be accustomed to. But Frank knows he should deal with this situation a different way. A quicker way.
"Yeah, that sound's f-f-fuckin' amazing, p-pal."
The man's eye twitches slightly. Frank is five feet away from him, arm still outstretched.
"What happened to your hand there?"
"Oh, this? This is n-nothing, pal. Nothing to worry about. Little s-scratch. Nothing to worry about. N-nothing to w-worry..."
The man's eyes go blank. Frank stops. The waitress backs up towards the kitchen wall. She notices too. All three are silent. The man presses the palm of his un-bandaged hand to his wet, sweaty forehead. He squints painfully. His mouth widens in pain as well. No sound comes out of it. His body contorts forward and he is stuck in this position for a brief moment. Frank takes a step back.
The man's body recovers from the brief contortion and his eyes open again. He turns to the waitress.
"So where's my FUCKING MEAT?!"
His voice is booming now.
"I'm calling the police!"
She says this to Frank, and not the man. Frank nods sternly and as the waitress sprints to the telephone in the back room, Frank sprints to the front door. The tiny bell tolls once more. Frank runs through the hard rain, his shoes splashing up water onto his pants and shirt with each smacking step. He reaches his car and fumbles to get out the keys. Once able to open his door, he leans into the passenger seat and opens the glove box. Blindly feeling around, he grabs a hold of his revolver and slams the glove box closed. Locks the door. Sprints back to the front entrance. Bell tolls. Frank plants himself in front of the door in a stable and ready stance, like a police officer ready to apprehend a suspect. Only there is no one to apprehend. Frank relaxes his stance and throws his revolver onto the bar counter.
The waitress emerges from the back section of the diner and scans the dining area.
"Where is that asshole?"
"Gone."
"What the hell."
"I don't know."
"Well, the police are coming. I swear to God, I hate this job."
The waitress mumbles in complaint back towards the back part of the diner, out of sight. Frank finds his coffee and drinks the rest. As he puts his cup down he stares at his case file. He also stares at a large red stain on Daisy's calf. He looks under it and sees the remnants of Caulder's report. It has been ripped from the folder. Frank sits down once more on the stool. He starts swivelling as he puts on his fedora.
"Sonuvabitch."
He scratches his matted hair under the fedora. Pockets his revolver and closes the case file. 3rd Street warehouse. He had a guess on who might be there, or on his way at least. Frank takes out a dollar bill from his pant pocket and gulps the rest of his coffee down. The bell above the door tolls one last time. Frank chuckles slightly as he gets into his car, rain once again pattering down on the windows. He turns on the ignition. There were no rocks or old men at this diner. But Frank wasn't careful of what he wished for.
He begins to think he will pay for it.
