Killer by Dave Zeltserman Page B

about it, though. According to a clock behind her it was already six-thirty. I left and made my way to one of the diners that was supposed to be open then.
    When I got to the diner the door was still locked. The lights were on and inside I could see a deathly pale girl moving around listlessly as she pulled chairs off tables and prepared the place for opening. She must’ve known I was standing out there but didn’t once look my way. After five minutes of this I knocked on the door hoping she’d let me in so I could get out from the cold. She stared in my direction for a moment as if it pained her greatly to do so, her eyes boring through me instead of looking at me and, showing how much she was being put upon to make the gesture, indicated that it would be one more minute. It ended up being ten more before she unlocked the door. Up close she was younger than I first thought, probably no older than twenty. Her lipstick and mascara were the same black that her hair had been dyed, with the mascara applied thickly enough around her eyes to make a small lone ranger’s mask. I’d seen fishing tackle boxes with less hooks in them than what she had pierced through her face. Mumbling, she thanked me for my patience, her voice flat, barely hiding its sarcasm.
    It was clear from the way she looked at me that she had no idea who I was, which I was grateful for. It was too early in the morning to see any more fear and revulsion in a stranger’s face. Just being seen as an anonymous old man was a relief. I followed her into the diner and she mumbled for me to take whichever table I wanted, and I took one far enough from the front window so that anyone walking by and looking in wouldn’t be able to recognize me.
    When she returned with a menu, I waved it off. I’d had enough time standing outside to have already memorized the one that had been posted by the front window, and I ordered black coffee, poached eggs, corned beef hash and pancakes; a breakfast I’d been dreaming about for years while in prison. Before she could move away from me I also asked for a yellow pages directory. Her eyes dulled to show how much of a burden this was, but when she came back with the coffee she also brought the phone book. Whenever she and the short-order cook weren’t looking I discreetly ripped pages out of the phone book that I needed. I would’ve asked her for a piece of paper and pen instead, but I didn’t want her feeling any more put upon.
    When the food was brought over I started salivating at the sight and smell of it. It was just greasy-spoon stuff, but at that moment I don’t think anything ever tasted better to me. I started shoveling the food in without even realizing it. Then I caught her smirking at me. Embarrassed, I turned away from her while I wiped some egg yolk off my chin, then forced myself to slow down and eat more leisurely. It wasn’t easy. You get conditioned after so many years in prison to wolf your food down. When I was done I almost ordered another breakfast. Instead though, I sat and read the newspaper, asking for refills on my coffee whenever I could get the waitress over. By this time a few more people had wandered into the diner. I had my back to them, I don’t think any of them recognized me. At least I couldn’t feel any of them staring at me.
    The third time I tried getting a refill the waitress told me I was only entitled to two with a cup of coffee. From the way her lips had curled into a tiny smirk I knew that wasn’t a rule of the diner, just something she was making up for me. I told her I’d order another cup then, and a piece of apple pie along with it.
    “We don’t have pie this early.”
    “Then a doughnut. Jelly-filled.”
    There was still no recognition on her part, she just wanted me to leave the table. The place was mostly empty, but the way she was keeping at arm’s length and had wrinkled her nose, it was probably because of the way I smelled, which surprised me. Not because I didn’t