Grinder by Mike Knowles

waiting inside, his whole body moved rather than just his head. Something was wrong with the old man. Something was pulling every muscle and tendon tight from the inside out.
    I powered up the phone as I finished my last mouthful of soup. I ordered a plate of gyros for Paolo, sending Yousif out of the dining room to the kitchen. The phone chirped its ring in my ear, and I watched Paolo grope at his pockets through the shaded window.
    “Yeah?” he said.
    “Walk down along the side of the Mandarin. Turn the corner and open the gate. Inside there's a dumpster. Walk in and close the door behind you.”
    “You want me to meet you in a dumpster?”
    “Not in, Paolo, beside. Leave the phone on while you walk.”
    “You're pushing it,
figlio
. I have my limits, and you are on the edge.”
    “Keep walking,” I said as I watched Paolo walk away from the restaurant. I listened to him grumble on the phone as his body disappeared. Soon I heard the creak of a wooden door behind Paolo's complaining. I waited.
    “You motherfucker. Where are you, you shit? You think this is funny? You —”
    “Shut up and stand there. I'm watching you right now. I want to know who else is too.”
    “I came alone. Don't you get it? I'm alone. I just want to talk to you.”
    “Johnny didn't just want to talk,” I said between sips from the glass of water on the table. That gave Paolo pause. “I told that kid exactly what I wanted him to do. I had no idea he would be so . . . overzealous.”
    “You send shit help and look where it gets you.”
    “I told you —”
    “Shut up and wait there. If someone like Johnny couldn't follow your instructions there are probably others who won't too.”
    “That is the last time you talk to me with that disrespect. I will walk out of here and make it so you beg to see me. I'll carve an invitation into the ass of that bartender's wife. You got that? Now where the fuck are you?”
    I had pushed it with Paolo, and it had shown me nothing. He didn't give up any more information. All I did was piss him off. “Give me a minute. Once I'm sure you're clean I'll pick you up.”
    “Once you know I'm clean?”
    “It's dumpster humour, Paolo.”
    “You motherfucker —”
    I put the phone down and watched the lot while Paolo swore. He had been out of sight for two minutes, and no one had followed after him. No one would give him that much rope if they were tailing him. They would want to know what Paolo Donati was doing beside a dumpster.
    I picked the phone up again. Paolo was no longer yelling. I could only hear his heavy seething breaths. “Walk back out front and go into the Mediterranean restaurant on your right.”
    “You said you were picking me up. I'm not jumping through any more hoops. If you're not there, I will find a place I know you'll run to.”
    I didn't answer him because through the window I saw him walk back into view still yelling into his phone. I closed Johnny's phone and watched Paolo's eyes open wider in disbelief. He stopped walking and stared at the phone then at the restaurant. I waved to him from behind the glass. He glowered at me — the type of glare that had gotten other people killed. Paolo marched through the doors and sat down in front of me with his back to the glass.
    “You got some nerve making me stand next to —” He was interrupted by a plate of gyros being placed in front of him. “What the fuck is this?” he asked in a tone that seemed to force a tremor through Yousif's body.
    “G-g-gyros sir. Your dining companion ordered them for you, sir.”
    “It's cool, Yousif. He just gets grumpy when he's hungry. Don't ya, Dad?”
    Paolo grumbled a response and forced a smile at our waiter. Yousif winked at me, his optimism returned. “You won't be hungry for long, sir. Enjoy.”
    We both watched him walk to the kitchen. It was the brisk walk of a busy man. I turned back to Paolo, who was busy himself staring at his plate.
    “Try it, it's good.”
    Paolo sniffed the steamy