“Let me tell you how this works. You came into my restaurant. You’re lucky I’m serving you at all. Plenty of places around here would have sent you right back out that door the second you walked in dressed like a bum.”
He poked a finger toward Maxwell’s chest without touching it. “So, take your seven dollars, take your pie, sit down, and be grateful.” The room had gone completely silent. The jazz track had ended, and the next one hadn’t started yet.
For three full seconds, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator case and the distant clatter of dishes in the kitchen.
Denise broke first. Her voice came out small, barely above a whisper. “Gary, he’s right. The change is short. I can fix it on the register.”
Gary spun on her. “One more word, one more, and I write you up before your shift ends. You understand me?” Denise’s mouth closed. Her eyes went wet. She took a half step back from the register and looked at Maxwell with an expression that said everything. I’m sorry, I can’t. I need this job.
Maxwell gave her the smallest nod, almost invisible. “It’s okay.”
Gary turned back to him. The power in the room was now entirely on one side, or so Gary believed.
He had the name tag. He had the register. He had the security guard. He had a room full of people who wouldn’t speak up. He snapped his fingers in the air. “Marshall!”
From near the front entrance, a broad-shouldered man in a black polo shirt straightened up. Marshall Anderson, security. He’d been leaning against the host stand, watching the whole thing with the stiff posture of someone who didn’t like what he was seeing, but didn’t know how to stop it.
“Keep an eye on this gentleman for me.” Gary put air quotes around gentleman. “Make sure he doesn’t cause any more disruptions.” Marshall walked over slowly. He positioned himself a few feet behind Maxwell’s left shoulder. Not aggressive, but present. A shadow with a badge.
Maxwell could feel him there. He could feel the room watching.
