I get my three tables their bills. Only one of them leaves me a tip. I seat an angry-looking older couple who are already asking about the senior discount before they’re even in their chairs, and this regular fireman who comes in every Saturday, orders the same thing, and just asks to be left alone as long as the all-you-can-eat shrimp keeps coming. I look back at Meredith’s booth as I punch in their orders.
Still no Nathan.
I check around for Tina, then step outside, wiping my hands on a towel, feeling the pull of a loop that I want to wash and wash and wash them. I don’t see Nathan anywhere, just oil stains, the traffic-
resistant pine shrubs that border us, and a big open sky with a full moon beaming down. I head around towards the garbage area, two big bins in a little brick hut that Jared and I are inevitably scheduled to wheel out every Sunday night. They smell unbelievably bad, even after we pour buckets of bleach into them.
There’s no one there either. I keep walking, still wiping my hands – just being near the garbage area would do that to even a normal person – not sure why I’m so curious or what I’m even thinking.
I don’t even like Nathan.
I probably wouldn’t want to see him killed, though.
I’m beginning to get properly worried – I’m going to wipe my fingerprints off with this rag –
when I turn the last corner and see him, his back against the brick of the restaurant outside the emergency exit. He’s having a cigarette, but he doesn’t look like he’s hurrying.
I stop in a shadow. Still wiping my hands, yes, but trying not to make a thing of it.
Nathan’s got a funny old face when no one’s looking at it. Like he’s almost an entirely different person, the saddest person I’ve ever seen – which is saying something – and sure, he lost his sister and he moves around a lot and he used to be an indie kid–
He used to be an indie kid. The little “mascot”, he said.
And it’s because I don’t like him, albeit just for stupid, jealous reasons, but the first thing I think isn’t: Maybe we could get him to find out what’s going on from some of our indie kids here.
It’s: What does he know that he’s not telling us?
Because he made a joke out of it, didn’t he? He showed up and the indie kids started dying.
Someone clever would point that out themselves and say how worried they were that they’d start being blamed, especially if they were to blame.
But then, so would someone who really did show up innocently.
He grinds his cigarette out with his foot. Then he picks up the butt and looks around for somewhere to throw it away so he’s not littering, which, okay, is maybe not the action of a killer.
Still.
He throws it in a trashcan down by a car, then stands looking into the windows of the restaurant. He doesn’t do anything, doesn’t wave at anyone or try to catch anyone’s attention, despite having a view of almost all of Jared’s section and definitely the booth where Meredith, Mel and Henna sit.
He looks sad again. Or sad still, whatever. He turns into the night, gazing at the cars driving by, at the stars and moon that still shine there.
What are you waiting for, former indie kid?
With a sigh, he disappears behind the other side of the restaurant, heading towards the entrance.
Where, once inside, he’ll no doubt pass the pissed-off seniors and annoyed fireman who are wondering where the hell their waiter ’s got to.
I hurry back in, still wiping my hands, wondering what I’ve seen. Wondering if I’ve seen anything. I probably haven’t.
But what was he doing out there? And what do we know about him, really?