Gary leaned against the register, crossed his arms. “See, this is what I’m talking about. Attitude. You walk in here looking like…” He gestured at Maxwell’s clothes. “Like that, and then you want to get loud with me?”
“I haven’t raised my voice once.” “Not yet. But I know how this goes.”
The espresso machine hissed behind Denise. Steam curled into the air and disappeared. She stood motionless, hands flat on the counter, eyes locked on a spot between the two men like she was praying for the floor to open up.
Maxwell took a slow breath. “I’d like my change, and I’d like my order.” Gary smiled. Not a warm smile. The kind of smile a man gives when he knows he’s holding all the cards, or thinks he is.
He punched open the register, counted out the change with exaggerated slowness, then slid it across the counter. Maxwell looked down. The math was wrong. He’d handed over a twenty for an eight fifty order. He should have gotten eleven fifty back. There was a five and two ones on the counter. Seven dollars.
“This is short.” “No, it isn’t. The check was eight fifty. I gave you twenty. That’s eleven fifty back. You gave me seven.”
Gary shrugged. “Maybe you miscounted. Happens a lot with cash people.” “Cash people.” “You know what I mean.”
Gary’s eyes flicked to the line forming behind Maxwell. A woman in a cashmere coat, a man in a polo shirt. Both white. Both watching. “Look, you’re holding up the line. Take it or leave it.”
Maxwell didn’t move. “I want the correct change.” Something shifted in Gary’s face. The fake smile dropped. What replaced it was harder, colder. The look of a man whose patience had run out. Not because he’d been wronged, but because he’d been questioned.
“You calling me a thief?” “I’m calling the math wrong.”
Gary stepped around the counter. He moved into Maxwell’s space. Close enough that Maxwell could smell the coffee on his breath and the cheap aftershave on his neck. He lowered his voice, but not enough. People could still hear.
