Olly’s didn’t have a liquor license, so Amparo and Martín would have a sensible two drinks at Squire’s, the weathered tavern down the block and across the street, after work. Tonight, they’d invited Tommy along. He’d had two whiskies, and enjoyed himself enough to want to stay, but he didn’t want to play the part of enthusiastic boozehound this early into a new friendship. On his way out, he’d noticed how normal their drink orders were —Modelo Dark for Amparo, two Old Styles and “no more than one, seriously,” shot of 1800 for Martín—and remembered his old boss’s unholy blue shit drink.
Tommy was beginning to feel like he was making friends, even if the two of them were a little older and calmer than the typical Bourdain-style pirate crew of cooks he liked to work with. Reggie and Juan Carlos, though? Even Luis, the dishwasher? There was potential there.
There’d been no pirate crew at Chili’s. Corporate kitchen, yeesh. Never again. At least Tommy had known all the cooks’ names, though.
The wild thing was, when Tommy had showed up the next morning for Monday lunch shift at Chili’s? No cop cars. No caution tape. No restaurant closing. There was a new GM, as if nothing had happened. The cooks all whispered together.
The new GM still called them all José. He knew Tommy’s name, though.
It was almost funny to remember that group now, given his new friends.
I’m not gonna kill again, Tommy thought to himself. Tonight was warm and he was smiling on his walk home. This is a nice place. Quiet, but in the city. These are friends.
Cheers and applause erupted from wherever he was walking past. Someone scratched on a guitar. Someone perididdled on a hi-hat. Tommy turned and watched through open front windows. The singer was taking the stage last, like a god, wiping hair out of his face. He took the mic off a stand and held it with his thumb sticking up. Exhaled theatrically at the crowd. Then the drummer counted a loud four on the hi-hat, the singer yelled “FUCK LANDLORDS,” and the entire bar became a circle saw slicing through the foundation of a skyscraper.
Something made Tommy think he knew exactly how that singer felt. That dick-swinging, fuck you I’m about to make you fall in love attitude, that absolute confidence in both craft and place in the world. Tommy could feel that way making a goddamned patty melt at Olly’s.
Amid the chaos, he thought he saw a familiar face. Was that Mara? Huh. New girl liked punk rock. Okay.
Tommy kept it moving, savoring summer air like piccata sauce. He was buzzed enough to not care if he found another spot to drink. He had to open tomorrow, anyway.
No more killing, Tommy thought. No more getting drunk just because you started drinking.
Tommy was listening to the laughing chatter of the city, to the patter of a passing dog’s paws, and briefly considered walking over to the beach. When he decided that the beach was farther than what he felt like, he took a few turns down blocks that weren’t on his route, adding extra minutes to the walk.
Then he remembered just a couple weeks ago, at Lilypad. There sure was caution tape there. Sure were cops there.
He thought about that jagoff, his lordly attitude. How he clearly thought of Table 22 as the dining hall in his personal fiefdom just because he’d slipped everyone he saw an extra $20. The asshole’s name was John. He was a regular by himself, a sad sack who masqueraded as a puffed-up peacock and thought that becoming a regular at neighborhood bar and grill was a status symbol. That night, though? He had a date. Some generically hot blonde. Long legs and possibly fake tits that were fighting to stay concealed in a sequined dress. Tommy could see why a man who couldn’t acknowledge the reality of his hairline wanted to impress a woman like that. Didn’t make it tolerable, though.
Tommy had let him have his little date. Then, the next night? When John came back through the kitchen at midnight, eight Scotch and sodas deep, wanting to grab a smoke “where the chefs smoke?” Tommy, again the last one in the kitchen, had led John outside, lit cigarettes, then nearly spatchcocked the puffy fucker with his own chef’s knife. John had bled like Fuckingham Bucking Fountain. Man, Tommy loved that knife.
Tommy had to burn that set of whites, and it took him half a day to sharpen his knife back. When he went in to open the next day and saw the caution tape, he made himself cry in front of the owners. Put on a big show of how much the whole thing affected him. The owners told him to take the time while the restaurant was closed to recover from the shock. After two days, he called and quit. The cops never even questioned him.
That had all happened. He had done those things.
But that didn’t have to be him now, right? People could change. Tonight, he’d stopped after two drinks.
He put the key in the lock and went upstairs. Thanked his past self for leaving the eighth floor windows open. A sweet-smelling breeze blew in. There was leftover pork lo mein in the fridge. He flipped on the TV, the channel showing some 90s thriller he couldn’t place.
So okay then. No killing at Olly’s. He almost wanted another drink, but he pushed that urge away.
Life was good at Olly’s. Then again, Reggie’s knifework could be sloppy. He’d seen how Juan Carlos could get careless at the end of the night.
Customers were customers. Today, someone had sent back over easy eggs because the yolk was runny. No matter how nice things got, someone always had to spoil it. There were too many people in the world who thought they were entitled to ruin everyone’s good time.
Now that he’d killed not once, but twice, well. It was almost like learning the mother sauces. Once a tool is in your toolbox, it’s available for use.
Fuck, no, stop it, he thought. That’s not it.
Okay, maybe it was more like sex. Once you’ve had sex with someone, you’re going to eventually picture them naked again later. Doesn’t mean you were going to have sex with them again, does it?
No more killing.
He wasn’t supposed to be drinking at home. He’d made that rule. But he had some Jack left over from celebrating the day he got hired, about half a bottle’s worth. What’s a drink or two.
He poured a Jack on the rocks. Something was off with his stomach, though, because the first sip made him gag. He fished a ginger beer out of the fridge and turned his drink into a highball. The pork lo mein container was empty—that must’ve been it. Who can drink straight liquor after Chinese food? Especially since Tommy liked his with extra dry chiles. It’s a chef thing, he would smile to himself.
It was a beautiful world, Tommy decided. Full of beautiful food, good people. Still. Always gonna be people who want to ruin it for everybody, Tommy thought. He was mixing another whiskey and ginger beer. You gotta get through the night in a restaurant, you gotta get through life, Tommy thought, using the tools you got. On screen, the hero was outsmarting the villain, always outsmarting. Tommy thought about that band’s singer. Always in control. Tommy knew how that felt. He could have a sauce break or get a plate sent back—he knew how to fix shit like that. He could be in control, like Rust or that singer, even when there were people who wanted to ruin everyone else’s good time. To get through life, Tommy thought, you gotta use the tools at your disposal.
He wasn’t sure what time it was. He mixed another whiskey and ginger beer.