by Robin Allen
Rudy whistled to get the other guys’ attention, then gave an order in Spanish. They began clearing the lanes of building materials, moving tools, paint cans, nails, and boxes into the center of the room. Lights flashed again on the second floor. The workers stood in the center looking uneasy, probably anxious for the race to be over so they could get back to work before Miles returned.
Troy chugged the rest of his beer, then waved the bottle at Danny. Danny snatched it from him, then went back through the kitchen door, apparently done acting as Troy’s bartender/babysitter.
Troy hopped aboard one of the gurneys, then flopped onto his stomach. He hung his head off the front and his arms over the sides to hold onto the table legs. “It’s better when you can’t see where you’re going,” he said.
“Doesn’t it make you dizzy?” I asked.
He looked up and grinned. “Oh yeah.”
As everyone waited for me to get on the second gurney, I came to my senses. I couldn’t be in a race with a customer. What if someone got hurt? What if this got back to my boss? What if I beat Troy? “Better not,” I said, holding up my bandaged hand. “Eleven stitches.”
Troy dropped his head. “You referee, then. I’ll race Todd.”
Todd handed me his hard hat, then laid prone on the other gurney, putting his chin on the table so he could see.
Rudy and Mingo arranged the gurneys on the lanes, and after Troy made a last-minute driver switch so Zoom-Zoom Rudy was pushing him in the inside lane, he said, “Time for the kickoff.”
I had never officiated at a gurney race, and I wasn’t sure if the correct start should be “Ready, set, go,” or “Three, two, one, go.” I decided to do it like in auto racing. I picked up a red grease towel, then walked a few paces up from the gurneys. I made eye contact with Rudy and Mingo, then raised the towel and brought it down quickly.
Had I been a real referee with authority and the proper hardware, I would have blown my whistle every few seconds on technicalities. Team Troy/Rudy took off a split second before the flag dropped. Team Todd/Mingo had the head start because they were in the outside lane, but Troy and Rudy caught up to them quickly.
As Troy passed Todd, he reached out his hand and shoved Todd’s gurney, sending it swerving to the right. Rudy shouldered Mingo, throwing him off balance. Mingo recovered and got Todd back in the lane, but not back in the race. On the straightaways Troy stretched his arms out to the side like a deranged magpie, whooping and giggling.
When Troy and Rudy crossed the finish line after the second lap, I waved the flag to bless them as winners. Todd and Mingo stopped where they were, about half a lap behind.
Troy rolled off his gurney, bent over, and threw up.
x x x
I went to inspect the bar. After they got cleaned up, Troy and Todd sat on barstools across from me and walkie-talked Danny to join them. “Monday morning muster,” Troy said.
I checked the beer coolers, which were stocked with expensive German beers that practically shivered in their frigid containers. The bar had a three-compartment sink for soapy wash, first rinse, and second rinse, and the water worked. It wouldn’t surprise me if Troy had Miles build the bar before he built the kitchen.
“Get me a beer while you’re back there,” Troy said.
Danny groaned. “Jeez, Troy.”
“Oh, sorry,” Troy said. “And one for yourself. My treat.”
“I’m a county employee on official business,” I said, “and it’s ten thirty in the morning.”
“Gotcha,” Troy said, tapping the side of his nose with a forefinger. “Vodka, then. Pour it into one of those syringes and squirt it in your mouth. It’s going to be our signatory cocktail, the Lethal Injection.”
“Signature cocktail,” Danny said, sounding like he had corrected Troy about two thousand times. “And not if we don’t get our liquor license.”
“It’s a myth that vodka doesn’t smell,” I said, handing a beer to Troy.
He put the bottle against the edge of the bar and slammed his hand down on it, lopping off the cap and letting it stay where it landed on the floor. He took a long pull, then wiped his mouth on his shoulder. “Tell us, Poppy,” Troy said, “what would a health inspector order for her last meal?”
“I don’t know. I guess maybe some rice and beans, and jalapeño cornbread.”
“Snoozeville,” Troy said.
“I’m a vegan, and this is the first time I’ve thought about it,” I said defensively. “What would yours be?”
Troy held up the bottle of beer. “You’re looking at it.”
“They don’t serve beer on death row,” Danny said.
“Gary Gilmore got bourbon,” Troy said. He finished his beer and signaled me for another—his fourth that morning that I knew of.
“That was contraband,” Danny said.
“Let’s not get into that again,” Todd said. “It’s all hypothetical. If Troy wants a beer, he can have a beer.”
“Or a signatory cocktail,” Danny muttered.
“Getting back on track,” Todd said, “let’s ask Poppy what she thinks.”
They nodded, in agreement for the first time since I had been there, which immediately made me wary. Whatever I gave my opinion about would surely divide them.
“We need a name for this place,” Todd said.
I stared at him. “You really haven’t decided? You’re opening in less than two weeks.”
Danny threw a scowl at Troy. “Unless someone comes to his senses.”
“Belay that, Danny,” Troy said sharply. He slammed the top off his fresh beer. “You keep telling employees and vendors—and Archer—we’re opening on June eleventh.”
Now that I’d had a look around the place and could see the unfinished state of their operation and their incongruent owners’ triangle, I thought their timeline seemed optimistic. They hadn’t asked for my opinion about their schedule, but I didn’t wait for them to. “That might be difficult, considering Mr. Archer lost half his guys earlier.”
“He what? ” Troy spluttered. “Why?”
“They misinterpreted my badge.”
“You have a badge?” he said. “Cool. Does it have a hot dog on it?”
Now, my reaction would have been to call Miles and ask him the same question I had earlier: why were his guys afraid of a badge? And then find out how he planned to finish the restaurant in less than two weeks with half a crew. But Troy seemed to have the attention span of a Labradoodle puppy.
“No, it does not have a hot dog on it.” I showed him the silver-plated oval attached to a black leather holder.
He took it from me, held it at arm’s length, and then made a finger gun with his other hand. “Food police! Freeze!”
Todd plucked the badge from Troy’s hand and slid it across the bar to me. “Which name do you like better?” He pointed to Troy, who smiled and said, “End Zone”; then to Danny, who said, “Ol’ Sparky’s”; then to himself and said, “Ciao Chow,” and spelled it for me.
I felt like I had been asked to make a choice between them personally. Should I pick Troy the Train, Todd the Catch, or Danny Dull? “All of those are clever,” I said, “but I think it’s pretty obvious what you should call it.”
Troy and Todd smiled, assuming I would pick their restaurant name. Danny looked away as if he had already lost.
“Capital Punishment,” I said.
The smiles faded as they processed that I had not chosen their name, then they looked at each other when they realized I hadn’t chosen any of the names. Then Troy saluted me with his empty beer bottle. I hadn’t seen him take the first sip.
“Excellent!” Troy said.
Todd looked at Danny. “I like it.”
“Finally!” Danny said. “I’ve got to order menus, uniforms, stationery…”
<
br /> “Stuff for the gift chamber,” Todd said.
“I need to check on that guillotine,” Troy said.
They stood and went into the kitchen, slapping each other on the back.
“You’re welcome,” I said to the swinging door.
x x x
I finished my inspection of the bar and wait station, then went looking for them in the kitchen. I found Todd and Danny in the corner office, each speaking into a cell phone. I stood in the doorway and removed my hard hat.
Todd pulled his phone away from his ear and asked me, “Is it Capital with an A or an O?”
Jocks. “A as in Austin,” I said, “the capital of Texas.”
“A,” he repeated into the phone.
They ended their calls at the same time, then came out of the office.
“How did we do?” Todd asked.
I tossed my hard hat through the doorway, landing it next to theirs on the floor. “You have no water in the bathrooms.”
Todd looked at Danny. “Your buddy Archer strikes again. You get to tell Troy.”
Danny rolled his eyes. “Where is he?”
“He went out to the snack truck.”
The back door swung open and we all turned, expecting Troy, but one of the construction workers ran inside. “Andale! ” he cried. “El guëro se murió! ”
I ran toward the door, then looked back at Todd and Danny, who hadn’t moved. How could they stand still at news like that? Unless they didn’t understand Spanish. “He said the honky is dead.”
four
Troy lay on the blacktop near the back fence, facing away from us. Todd reached him first and dropped to his knees, then put his hands on Troy’s shoulder and hip. I tried to imagine what Todd was going through, about to look into, well, his own lifeless face.
“Don’t move him,” Danny cautioned.
I thought that was good advice, but Todd ignored it. He turned Troy over, but before he could feel for a pulse, Troy scrunched his face into a grimace.
“Troy!”
“Right here, bro. No need to yell.”
“What happened?” Todd asked as he helped his brother sit up.
A similar scene had played out on the football field every time Troy dropped out of the pocket and got sacked. Except this time there were no teammates and coaches running onto the field, no cheerleaders nervously quiet on the sidelines, no crowd in the stands chanting “Train, Train, Train,” until he popped up, invigorated by the sound of his nickname repeated like a mantra by hundreds of strangers. I never believed he was as hurt as he appeared to be.
Troy raised a shaky hand to the back of his head. “Someone knocked me out.”
Danny snorted. “Who was it this time? Jack Daniels or Jim Beam?”
“Shut up, dork,” Troy and Todd said. Then Todd glanced up without looking at us, which was unfortunate, because instead of apprehension or worry on Danny’s face, he would have seen what I saw: satisfaction.
“Danny, get some water,” Todd commanded.
“I’ll go,” I offered, glad for an excuse to get out of the sun.
“And a cold beer,” Troy called after me.
I wound my way to the sink through a network of expensive stoves, prep tables, and ovens. I turned on the water, solving one mystery—it worked—but I immediately turned it off because it presented a new problem. They hadn’t purchased any kitchen supplies. No bowls or glasses, pots or pans, not even a ladle. I didn’t remember seeing drinking glasses at the bar, but maybe I would find something that could hold water. I knew I would find cold beer.
I pushed through the kitchen door and ran straight into someone soft and exasperated.
“Can I help you with something?” asked a woman with short blond hair that looked blonder against a tan as dark as her brown eyes.
Ginger Krueger. She hadn’t gained a pound since high school. In her expensive tennis whites, she still looked like a head cheerleader. And was still as intimidating.
“I’m, uh, looking for beer,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow.
“For Troy.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Troy Sharpe has had enough beer to last him to his grave.” Then her face changed, and I recognized the look. It was one of uncertainty and mistrust that had recently slid into my own eyes whenever I encountered a woman I thought could be the one with whom my now ex-boyfriend, Jamie, had cheated on me.
Ginger had to be either Troy’s or Todd’s wife, instinctively protecting her husband or her brother-in-law. She had dated both of them in high school, and neither twin wore a wedding band, so I couldn’t be sure who she belonged to.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Of course she didn’t remember me. She had been too busy applying lip gloss and breaking hearts to notice a sophomore nobody. I put my hand in my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the answer. “Austin/Travis County health inspector,” I said, holding up my badge.
“On a beer run for Troy?”
“I’m also looking for a glass for water.” I explained that Troy had passed out behind the restaurant. “Todd asked for water, then Troy asked for a beer. I couldn’t find—”
“Todd’s here?” she said, pushing open the kitchen door.
I followed Ginger through the kitchen, her short tennis skirt popping against the backs of her legs with every step. They still looked strong enough to propel her to the top of a human pyramid. I picked up an empty beer bottle from a prep table, then filled it with cold water at the sink.
The back door opened and the twins came through it, Todd saying, “But he’s the only one of us who knows what he’s doing. We’re in the crosshairs if he doesn’t come back this time.”
“He’ll be back,” Troy said. “And if he can’t take a little hazing, he’ll be relieved of his command. He’s not the only manager in Austin.” He put a hand to the back of his head, then checked it for blood.
“I know,” Todd said, “but just take it easy, man. Okay?”
Ginger waited for them to notice her, as did I, but unlike me, she wasn’t dying of curiosity to know which one had put that iceberg on her left hand.
“Ginger,” they said at the same time. Todd sounded surprised; Troy sounded guilty. That didn’t tell me anything.
“Boys,” she said. I was standing behind her, so I couldn’t see her face, and her tone didn’t tell me anything.
“Ginger, Ginger,” Troy said, like a little boy. “I came up with a name for my restaurant. Guess what it is.”
“Capital Punishment,” I said. If he wanted to claim my credit, then I would claim his thunder.
“It’s about time,” Ginger said, then glanced back at me. “That one was wandering around looking for beer. She told me you passed out.”
“I got knocked out,” Troy said.
Ginger must have looked at Todd for confirmation, because he twitched one shoulder into an almost imperceptible shrug. Twins are supposed to be able to sense the truth about each other, and it appeared that Troy’s didn’t believe him.
“By whom?” asked Ginger, sounding doubtful.
“If I knew that,” Troy said, “I’d be on the phone with the police.”
“Probably some kids,” Todd said.
“Did they take anything?” Ginger asked.
“Take?” Troy echoed. He patted both back pockets of his shorts, then looked relieved.
“Surely they didn’t hang around in the heat for who knows how long, waiting for you to stroll out back so they could knock you out and run off into the brush.” Ginger sounded like a lawyer who won a lot of cases, and I thought I had my answer. She had to be Troy’s wife.
“Since you know everything,” Troy said, “why don’t you tell us what happened.”
“The sa
me thing that’s been happening since you got kicked out of the marines. You started drinking when the sun came up, and instead of admitting that you passed out just now, you’re making up some story about being attacked by kids with no discernible motive other than kicks.”
“Todd said they were kids. And I didn’t get kicked out of the marines.” Troy jumped a cigarette out of its pack. “Is that my beer?”
I had been following the grenade launches so intently, it took me a moment to realize that he had changed the subject and was now talking to me.
“How about an AA meeting instead?” Ginger said.
Troy looked at her with several antonyms of love in his eyes, stuck the cigarette between his lips, then left through the back door.
“Watch out for those meddling kids!” Ginger called after him.
It was only when Todd relaxed his shoulders that I realized he had been as silent as I had during their face-off.
Ginger looked at Todd. “Sorry,” she said.
“That brother of mine has been on everyone’s nerves lately.”
Including mine, and I had been there for only a couple of hours. I handed Todd the beer bottle, then removed a business card from the side pocket of my backpack and gave it to him. “Call me when the sinks are in and the bathrooms have water.”
“It’ll be done after lunch,” he said.
I had agreed to a lunch date with my ex-boyfriend, so the timing worked perfectly. “I’ll be back around two o’clock,” I said.
I had the leisure of unrushed inspections and weekday lunch dates because my boss, Olive, had me on light duty. A couple of days after my skirmish with a murderer, I had gone back to my regular duties as a Special Projects Inspector, an SPI, filling in for absent colleagues and doing follow-up inspections.
The first time I didn’t allow a restaurant to reopen after being shut down by another inspector, the owner called Olive to whine that my hand wasn’t safe to be around food. It was their pest control system—several cats controlling the roach and rat infestation—that wasn’t safe to be around food, but Olive said she didn’t want to field any more complaints about me. I suspect it was more like she didn’t want to interrupt the continual insertion of luridly colored snack foods into her mouth or take a break from the intellectual challenge of computer solitaire.