The Waffle Mob

by Cindy Rosmus

“Don't stare!” Val hid behind the menu.

“Who's staring?” Vince leaned across the small, round table. “Just checking the place out, that's all.”

She cringed. Some bright idea, getting hot Cousin Vince to play brunch date. For one thing, they looked alike. Both dark-haired, with deep-set brown eyes, though Val had lots of makeup on hers. Plus, Vince was bad news. In and out of jail, always up to no-good.

But he was just what she needed . . .

To spite Nick.

Swaggering owner of this “Breakfast Club,” Nick had it coming to him. On “grand opening” day, let him see Val with a guy even hotter than him . Let him kiss her ass, for a change.

Smirking, she shut the menu.

Years back, Nick had bitch-slapped her heart. The late 80s. “It's your own fault,” her friends told her, “For let ting him.” It was in every self-help book and magazine. Thanks to them, Nick never should've got laid.

But he did . A lot. He was short, with Sicilian attitude. A short-haired Bon Jovi, he looked like, with keen blue eyes. At Beanheads, their local hangout, he had his choice of bimbos. Around his pitchers of Coladas, they swarmed like bees.

Val was no bimbo. A college grad, she'd just missed honors, thanks to too many nights at Beanheads . . .

* * *

“You leaving me?” Nick said, in his teasing way. Half-smirking, half-sincere.

“Got class tomorrow,” Val told him. “Early.” Even to her, it sounded dumb. Abnormal Psych, yet. Like she didn't already know she was nuts. For him, anyway.

“Fuck class,” he said, getting closer. “I'll teach you, myself.” Her knees melted, but he held her in place. “All you need to know.” He nuzzled her throat.

“All night . . .”

She was lost in the smell of him: leather, and coconut. How tightly he held her, like she'd better not leave . . . or else.

“Or Else, What?” stood right behind him, way too close. Stephanie, with her curly blonde perm, and hateful eyes.

The one night Val left early, Stephanie pounced on Nick.

And wouldn't let go.

* * *

“Would you stop ?” Val begged Vince.

“The fuck am I doing?” When he pointed to the wall, she wanted to cry. “The ‘Specials' menu's up there. On that fancy blackboard.”

She looked around. The Breakfast Club was airy and painted bright yellow. “Buttercups,” a stable person might think of. But “piss” came to Val's mind. Piss a homeless guy would aim at a wall.

So far, no Nick.

The place was filling up with old and young folks, kids in strollers. Hungry-looking, like they'd missed both breakfast and lunch for a week. Despite the mob, young blonde waitresses milled about, like they were waiting for instructions.

His daughters? Val wondered. She'd heard Nick had two, by that curly-headed blonde bitch, Stephanie. Or “Stevie,” as Nick called her.

But now “Stevie” was dead .

“I'll have the chocolate chip waffles.” Chin in hand, Vince looked lazily up at the menu. “And a Bloody Mary.”

“There's no booze here.”

“ What ?” He sat up. “I had a rough night. I'm only here to do you a favor.”

Val felt like crying. “Go ‘head, tell the whole world!”

“Is he here?” Again, Vince searched the room.

“No.”

“Then let's go to a bar .” As he got up, she seized his wrist, pulled him back down.

“Vince,” she said, in a choked voice, “Pul- lease .”

“Hi!” The waitress had appeared, out of nowhere. One of the “Stevie”-looking blondes. “Ready to order?”

“Well . . .” Val hadn't even read the menu. All she wanted . . . She peered around the room. Still no Nick. “We'll both have chocolate chip waffles.”

“Wait,” Vince said. “I changed my mind.” He was eyeing the waitress, strangely.

Great , Val thought.

“Need more time?” The girl smiled. Nick's eyes in Stevie's face made Val's heart jump. But the girl looked more like Stevie. And it wasn't just the curly hair.

“Or . . .” the girl said, coyly. “I could sug gest something.”

Vince kept staring, but in a confused, even dis turb ed, way. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Waffles.”

“And sausage omelets,” Val said.

“Two?” the waitress asked Vince. Still staring, he nodded, finally.

“Thanks a lot,” Val said, when the girl had gone. “You're supposed to be with me .”

“Huh?' He still seemed out of it. “Thought I knew her, that's all. Looks familiar.”

“Like somebody you kill ed?” Val joked.

The look he shot her gave her chills.

“I never . . . killed no body,” he said. Then, even after ordering food, he opened the menu and studied it.

If you did , she thought, I don't want to know .

In their family, Vince was the blackest sheep. Copping pleas had saved him from even more jail time. But God knows what he real ly did, what he was really capable of.

She looked hard at him. Powerfully-built, he could be tender, sometimes. As kids, he'd once saved her from drowning in a neighbor's pool. Yeah, that's real funny! she remembered him saying, as she was pulled out. She'll learn to swim real good. Vince had beaten that kid to shit, for throwing Val in the pool.

When their coffee arrived, Vince glanced up from the menu.

“ 'S that him?” he asked, when the girl had gone.

Val tried peeking over her shoulder, but the fat guy behind her blocked her view.

Vince spooned sugar into his coffee. “Over there.”

She got up, backed into the fat guy, who choked on his juice. “I'm . . . sorry!” she said, and dropped back down.

“Fuckin' ditz,” Vince said, without looking at her.

Again she got up. She did a 360° around the room, and looked right into Nick's eyes.

“Oh, shit,” she whispered.

Even now, twenty years later, Nick looked smug. Like he, too, had been waiting for this moment. Except he was cool about it. At the register he sat, smirking, as if his grand opening's cash was already neatly stacked inside.

Her stomach lurched. She pictured the waffles coming back up, if she could even choke them down. “Oh, man ,” she said now.

Vince added more sugar to his coffee. “Hot shit, he thinks he is. Like his don't stink.”

Val nodded, miserably. One look had brought it all back. Countless failed affairs and one-nighters with other guys had been no buffer for this moment. “Nick's chick,” she'd always be. Whether he want ed her, or not.

“Where's the wife?” Vince asked.

“Dead.”

His eyes widened.

“Murdered. A botched robbery, people said. But who knows?”

The waitress was back with their food. As she set down Vince's, she was bubbly as hell. “Need more butter?” she asked. “For the toast? There's pomegranate jelly. Home made . We make it ourselves. Dad crushes the skin and seeds . . .”

“No, thanks,” Val said, for both of them.

When the girl left, Vince leaned across the table. “She his kid? His, and the dead wife's?”

Val stopped buttering toast. “Why?”

He sat back. “The old man's watching.” He reached for her hand, which still clutched the knife. “Where'd he get the dough for all this? He rich?”

“ She was. Her folks. He was always drunk, and broke.” My type , Val thought. “Always want ed his own business. But it wasn't till she died . . .”

Vince grimaced. “It never is .”

Suddenly, Val felt queasy. “You don't think . . .”

“Nah,” Vince said, squeezing her hand. “Lotsa guys talk about knocking off their wives. But how many got the guts?” He looked away. “Besides,” he added, “It costs plen ty to have it done right.”

She cringed.

“What's his last name?” Vince asked, then.

Before she could answer, Vince said, “He's coming over. We don't have to make out , do we?”

A chill ran down her back.

“So it is you,” Nick said. “Even from be hind , I never forget a face.”

Val forced a laugh. Doggie-style, he must've been thinking. Vince's hand felt as sweaty as hers.

“And this is . . .” Nick said.

“Vince,” her cousin said, before she fucked it up. He released her hand to shake Nick's.

Up close, Nick looked older than forty-two. Val was thrilled. His face looked saggy, like “Bon Jovi's” mother was a St. Bernard.

“I love this place,” she said.

“Thanks.” Nick smiled. Then he got serious. “You probably heard about . . .”

Stevie . “Yeah.” Val tried to look sad. “I'm sorry, Nick.”

He shut his eyes, then nodded, slowly. Like he'd been practicing this for weeks. Years , maybe.

How long ago , Val asked herself, did she die ? Last year? The one, before?

“Tough break, man,” Vince said. “Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Nick rubbed the back of his neck, and shrugged.

“Shit happens.”

Val looked at Vince. Even for him , that was a strange remark.

He'd started eating, finally. “Ever find the shooter?” he asked Nick, then.

“ ‘Scuse me?” Nick seemed frozen.

Vince poured more syrup on his waffles. He corrected himself. “I mean, did they find . . . the kill er?”

Val was sweating all over, now. “Nick,” she said, “Could you turn on the air, maybe?”

But Nick was oblivious to her. He was giving Vince the same disturbed looks Vince had given that curly-headed blonde daughter . . .

Who looked almost exactly like Stevie.

Val watched Vince wolf down those waffles. Like he was going to the chair , at midnight. Not him , she thought, bitterly. Never Cousin Vince .

No, Val realized. Stevie hadn't been stabbed. Or bludgeoned with a hammer.

The “shooter,” Vince had said, so smoothly. So know ingly.

“Nice meeting you,” Nick muttered, and turned away.

Val was glad she hadn't eaten anything. Or it would be creeping back up. In the back of her throat, she tasted tears.

Still chewing, Vince watched Nick's retreat, all the way across the room, and out the door. Vince swallowed, then turned back to Val, smiling.

“Liar,” he said.