Seasons of Change (5 page)

The graveyard shift at the diner was never a lot of fun. The shift usually passed about a hundred times slower than it did at any other time, as if time had been stretched. Years ago this place had been buzzing at night. There would be a constant stream of truckers and travelers coming into the diner, but that was before word had gotten out about the Angels. Now, most people tried to avoid Painted Rock at night.

Truckers would add another hour onto their journey just to bypass the town to avoid the MC that had gained a reputation for taking what they want without asking any questions. The Bleeding Angels were “bleeding” this town dry, and there was no one to call time on them. There was no one left who gave enough of a damn to do something about it.

Tonight the diner wasn’t even a quarter full, which meant the tips would be pretty pathetic, but at least the night shift was charged at time and a half. I wait for the last few tables to finish up and ask for the check, then go back to the psychology textbook I’d borrowed from the library.

I had found the psych introductions that we’d had in high school so interesting that I’d become a bit of a nerd, reading whatever I could get my hands on that was linked with the field. I suppose a psych professional would say that my interest in the human brain had something to do with my mother’s breakdown.

I wonder if there is something to that theory—that I’m looking for a way to bring her back. I read the college textbook underneath the counter until the owner of the diner, Dick, walks in. I then push the book further out of view to avoid a lecture from my boss on the importance of “front of house” courtesy.

Dick is an improbably small man but he still manages to live up to his name. When he had hired me, he had made it clear that he wasn’t taking me on because of my summer waitressing experience or because of my work ethic—it was because of the way I look.

He had “suggested” that I undo a couple of the bottoms on my uniform to give the customers enough to whet their appetite so they come back, but not enough to make them feel like they’ve seen it all so they don’t need to become a regular. The only time I followed his so-called suggestion was when I knew that he was due at the diner.

I quickly realized that flashing a bit of cleavage wasn’t the reason that our regulars kept on coming back—it was Big George’s cooking. He’s the one that makes Dick’s Diner what it is: one of the most successful businesses in Painted Rock. Dick treated him like he was something the man has found stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

I’d asked George why he lets Dick get away with the way he treats him, but all George had done was concentrate on my lips as I spoke and smile cheekily at me. Then, in the middle of tossing a pancake, he had pulled an earplug out of each ear and shrugged as I hooted with laughter.

After the business from the truckers started to thin out, so did Dick’s hair and his visits. He pretty much just leaves Big G in charge now and doesn’t even try to make a semblance of a show of running the place. The only time I really even see him anymore is for the monthly handover of payment to the Angels, and every time he sees me he forgets my name, despite having worked here for years and despite the fact that my uniform bears a name-tag.

“Evening Dick,” I say his name more emphatically than is necessary, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Right, evening...” he starts and then looks at me as if he has never seen me before.

It’s pretty funny actually; Dick started to forget my name around the same time I told him that if he kept feeling my ass I’d report him to the police back when my dad still had some friends on the force. Dick is known around town for liking girls who are way too young for him—girls who are young enough to be his daughters. Dick edges around me as if he’s concerned he may accidentally touch me and I’ll make good on my threat to report him, and he heads into the back to speak to Big George.

Only a couple of minutes pass before Dick comes back out of the kitchen and heads towards the door again. “No handover tonight?” I ask, knowing that this is highly improbable, but confused as to why Dick would be reaching for the door before the Angels have even shown up.

“Big George is going to deal with it. I have some… other business to attend to,” he says, his voice is squeaky and his forehead as shiny with sweat as always.

I don’t ask him what possible business he could have to attend to at one in the morning, partly because I’m a little shocked that, for the first time, Dick wouldn’t be here when the Angels arrived. As soon as the door closes behind him I rush into the kitchen and find Big George standing by the range with a brown envelope in his hands, staring down at it as if he suspects it might grow a head and bite him.

“What’s going on?” I ask, not liking the expression of fear that I’m seeing on Big George’s face.

“It’s not enough,” the big man replies quietly. “Not enough by half.” I feel myself go cold as he says the words.

“And Dick the dick left you to deal with it?” I ask, disgusted. It turns out people can always surprise you. Even when you think you know how pathetic they are, they can always go one better.

Big George doesn’t say anything. He just nods slowly, clearly thinking about what the heck he’s going to say to the Angels when they arrive and find that they don’t have anywhere near the money that they were expecting.

“What are you going to do?” I ask fearfully.

“I’m going to hand it over,” Big George replies. “It’s the only thing I can do. Whatever happens after that is Dick’s problem,” he says, but he knows as well as I do that the Angels don’t discriminate when it comes to payback.

As if thinking about them has made them appear, the bell on the diner door rings and two bikers walk in, their heavy boots slapping on the floor. Big George and I look at each other for a beat and then he walks out to the front of house and I follow close behind him. I vaguely recognize the men, but I couldn’t put a name to their faces—partly because they’re both tattooed up to the hilt and one has a huge ring coming out of his lip that morphs his mouth into a perpetual sneer.

“Well aren’t you a pretty little thing,” the blonde biker says, and I wonder if the Angels teach that sense of entitlement or if it just comes with the territory.

“What can I get you?” I ask, nonplussed, forcing myself to remain civil. There is no point in getting them fired up when they are about to find out they aren’t going to get what they had come here for.

“Two whiskeys, straight up,” the guy with the shaved head and the hoop in his lip replies without breaking his stare from me, and I try not to shift uncomfortably.

“We don’t serve alcohol here. It’s a diner, not a bar,” I tell them, busying myself with filling some sugar bowls so I don’t have to look at them or the wolfish way they’re staring at me.

“Well I suggest you find some, sugar lips, before we get so thirsty and we do something stupid,” Blondie says, his voice full of menace. I have to bite my tongue to prevent saying anything about nothing being stupider than whatever his friend has done to his face.

“In the back, Aimee, there’s a bottle in the back,” Big George says, looking at me and nodding towards the kitchen. I know he’s just trying to avoid any trouble.

He’s doing the sensible, mature thing, but it riles me beyond my limit that they think they can just turn up and everyone should bow down to them, as if the angel on a crucifix tattoo they all have makes them special or important. It just makes them part of the problem, the problem that is strangling this town.

Without saying anything I turn on my heel and stomp into the kitchen. I know exactly where Big George keeps his secret stash; he’s not a big drinker, but everyone in this town needs a little swig sooner or later to calm their nerves. It’s just the way of things. As I walk back to the front of the diner with the whisky bottle in hand I can already overhear that the Angels aren’t happy with whatever Big George is telling them.

“What do you mean this is it? Where’s the rest?” Baldy asks, leaning threateningly over the counter with the half-empty envelope in his hands.

“There is no rest,” Big George says slowly and calmly, and I’m impressed by him yet again—he’s one of the few men that can stand up to the Angels without flinching, and that is saying a lot. “Dick dropped the cash off earlier, and that’s all there is,” he repeats, nodding towards the envelope that Blondie has now snatched out of his friend’s hand.

Blondie starts leafing through the cash, counting as he goes. “It’s not even half! What the fuck are we supposed to do with this?” What the fuck are we supposed to tell the Chief?” he asks explosively, looking at Big George like his eyes are about to pop out of his head.

“Drinks are up,” I say loudly, nudging the glasses that I’ve just filled almost to the brim with whisky in their general direction, trying to break the tension that’s crackling in the air.

My eyes flick over to the table at the back where two cops are sipping on their coffees as if this drama isn’t playing out in front of them. It’s not surprising; there’s no way the cops are going to get involved in a dispute over money between us and the Angels. It’s much easier for them just to pretend they’re completely unaware of what’s going on.

I want to scream at them, to ask them why they even bothered to become police officers in the first place, to remind them that they’re supposed to serve and protect and that they haven’t been protecting this town for a good long while. But I don’t do any of those things; I know there’s no point. Instead I concentrate my attention on the Angels in front of me that look like they’re hanging by a very thin thread.

The two bikers barely spare me a sidelong glance as they continue to stare at Big George. As if staring will suddenly magic the money that they’re missing out of thin air. “Well if good ol’ Dick can’t be fucked to cough up the cash, then maybe we need to send him a message,” the bald biker says quietly, the ring in his lip making his grim grin even more unpleasant.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with George. Why don’t you just crawl back under the rock that you came from?” I shout at them, unable to contain my anger and frustration any more.

What happens next all plays out so quickly that I don’t even realize what’s happened until it’s too late. The bald guy pulls a knife out of his pocket, and at the same time Blondie pushes me so I slam into the cupboards behind me.

There’s a grunt from Big George that sounds like an animal in pain and I can feel my eyes widen as I look from his face down to his left hand that is resting on the counter. But it’s not resting there anymore—it’s been pinned. The knife that Baldy had pulled out of his belt has been shoved through the palm of George’s hand and a puddle of blood is starting to pool around it.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” I explode without thinking. “You think stabbing George is going to get you your money? If you do then you’re even more stupid than you look,” I shout as I rush over to George, pulling the knife out of his hand. The wound isn’t big, but it’s deep. The knife has gone all the way through and, although I’m no doctor, it’s clear he’s going to need stitches.

“You better watch that smart mouth of yours, beautiful, unless you want to give us a reason to cut you too,” Blondie tells me menacingly before his friend picks up the bloody knife, slowly and deliberately, and then licks the tip, tasting George’s blood before he secrets it away to wherever it had come from in the first place.

“Threatening a girl. That’s impressive,” I say, my voice shaking from anger more than fear. “You’re sick, the lot of you. Just take your money and get the fuck out,” I tell them, not even looking in their direction as I wrap a clean dishtowel around George’s injured hand.

“Don’t push us,
Aimee
,” Baldy says as the other biker collects up the envelope and shoves it into a pocket in his leather jacket. “The Chief is going to hear about this, and you don’t want to make things any worse for yourself than you already have, sweet pea. Now tell Dick that we expect the rest of the money, with interest, at the end of next month or he’ll find himself even shorter than he already is,” the bald guy hisses, laughing at his own joke.

“How is he supposed to do that?” I ask, unable to keep my mouth shut. It was something I’d never been very good at—my dad used to say that I was born without a “brain to mouth” filter; anything that I think just tends to come spilling out before I can stop it. “You Angels have been sucking this town dry for years, so there is
no more money!
” I shriek at them.