Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3)

by Brian David Bruns

  Finally the plate was full. The table was soiled with discarded shells and shrimp legs. He excitedly snatched up the citrus and squeezed the pulp viciously. The lemons were horribly mangled in those powerful hands––the rinds actually splitting and the juice dribbling from clenched, hammy fists. The renewed mound of shrimp flowed with the fluid like a volcano spilling molten lava. Once bereft of their precious juice, the crushed lemons were cast aside as so much useless rind.

  The food preparation ritual required nearly five full minutes. Eating did not. He shoveled the shrimp into his mouth and gulped them down in barely a single breath. The man wasted no more time on contemplation—or digestion. After literal seconds, his napkin was ripped from its home and tossed to the table. He departed.

  2

  “Oh my God,” Lisa groaned to Wayne. “He’s back again.”

  “Who?”

  “The shrimp guy.”

  Wayne echoed her moan. To properly show his displeasure, he even went so far as to bang his head against the wall. After seeing that his theatrics failed to get the response he had hoped for from the attractive Lisa, he harrumphed, “What, is this guy European or something?”

  Lisa Mercado paused, momentarily marring her forehead with a frown. It turned her features into a pout, which actually improved them. She was blessed with a charming, natural allure—the quintessential girl next door. A sprinkle of freckles only added to her approachability. Lisa was undeniably attractive, if not particularly beautiful, but far from worldly.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said to Wayne. “I guess he kind of looks European. Why?”

  “Lots of Europeans come in late and stay all afternoon,” the burly young man answered. Wayne Yost stood well over a foot taller than Lisa. His shoulders were immensely broad, but not yet thickened. He was inordinately proud of them nonetheless and took pains to roll them whenever female eyes drew near. “You know, those countries with siestas and stuff.”

  “What’s a party have to do with anything?”

  Wayne shook his head, flopping the long flaxen hair over his forehead. He arrogantly laughed at her ignorance—no doubt suffering the delusion his superiority was appealing. “Siesta, not fiesta,” he corrected. “Siestas are their breaks in the afternoon.”

  “Well excuse me for not knowing any Mexican,” Lisa replied, hands on her hips. “But no, I don’t think he’s European. He’s too nice.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Wayne asked. It was his turn to frown; the expression resembled a pout on his face, too, but was decidedly not an improvement.

  Lisa was happy to educate him. It was a welcome change. As obnoxious as Wayne was—and he really, truly was—he was also very smart. He was acing college with a 4.0 GPA. Lisa explained, “Most Europeans I’ve served are really demanding and think of waitresses differently, like a servant and stuff. You know, Americans are friendly to waiters.”

  “You think?” he acknowledged, lost in thought.

  Lisa peeked around the folding screen that hid the service station from view of the restaurant. The small dining room was mostly empty at this hour. She had entertained visions of getting off at a reasonable time. But then there was table 29.5. The man always sat at the little half-sized table by the pillar, and always did his shrimp thing. He was so weird!

  This man, Mr. Arno, had first discovered the peel-and-eat shrimp buffet four days ago. That first day he had not eaten, but had seemed very excited at the sight of the buffet’s offerings. The next lunch he returned and began his strange ritualistic eating. He was nice enough, but always came in late and left even later. Lisa had to waste all damn afternoon waiting for him to leave. On a good day, she had only two hours between her lunch shift and evening classes. Now she would have to rush straight to school—again.

  “I swear to God if he comes tomorrow, I’ll quit,” Lisa vowed to the ceiling. “This is a fine dining restaurant, not the Tuna Bucket Buffet.”

  She looked over to Wayne, surprised he had not responded. He was busy flexing his muscles beneath his uniform. She could always tell by the way the tendons in his neck tensed and popped. He had a deplorable fixation with his bulk and was adding to it every day. This he bragged about more than his grades—amazingly—or even his steroid use.

  Lisa rolled her eyes in wonder at him. Wayne flexed often when she was around. He thought it turned her on, despite her emphatic reminders to the contrary. Even if she had been impressed—which she was not—she’d told him a dozen times she couldn’t date him even if she wanted to—which she did not—because she didn’t have the time. This had been an ongoing thing for years. Since high school, in fact.

  “Wayne,” she chided, “Stop it.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re flexing again. You are almost as obsessive as Mr. Arno.”

  Wayne’s pale features were flushed red with the combination of his excitement whenever he was around her, constant use of a tanning bed, and the heavy acne that was a secondary result of steroid use. Pimples and freckles fought for dominance over his face, in particular for his pug-like nose. He swept aside his pale blond hair in a further act of self-posturing.

  “If you want to talk about obsession,” he retorted. “Then let’s talk about it. I can’t believe you let go of your script for more than five minutes today!”

  “Don’t remind me!” Lisa lamented. “I left it at home. Now all this time’s wasted, waiting for this weirdo. But who’da thought he’d come so many days in a row? Tomorrow I’m bringing it for sure.”

  Lisa had less than two weeks remaining to memorize all her lines. She was playing the lead female role at Cook Community College’s performance of Cyrano de Bergerac. Not only was she being graded on her performance—a big grade—but if she did well, acceptance into the Emoting Society was all but assured. Oh, how she longed to be accepted. She rarely left her apartment without the script in hand. Alas, her hairdryer had broken that morning and she forgot it in her anger. Lisa was helpless without her routine.

  “Look, he’s doing the shrimp thing again,” Wayne giggled.

  Having no desire to watch the horrible ritual yet again, Lisa left the serving station and strode down to the kitchen. She wanted nothing more than to escape the two most annoying men ever known. Well, man and boy. She had no luck. Wayne trailed after, as always. More giggles, more annoying details. “He shoveled it all in, and now he’s on his second plate.”

  “Wayne,” she said, turning on him suddenly, “I am going to have a cigarette, all right?”

  Wayne was not tall, but he still towered over Lisa. She was very small. “Five foot two, eyes of blue, one hundred two,” she liked to say. She knew she was pretty—it was impossible to ignore men’s reactions to her presence—though she thought her nose was too big. Obviously Wayne didn’t. He talked about her all the time, especially when he thought she might be eavesdropping. She knew he didn’t love her or anything. He just liked her ass.

  “Sure,” he said, standing a bit too near for comfort.

  “Okay, then stop following me,” she said, pushing him back. “You need to keep an eye on Mr. Arno.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Arno. The shrimp guy.”

  “Ok, yeah. Sure. Anything for you, Lis,” he said, skipping away. He acted as if he were doing her a favor, as if watching the restaurant wasn’t his job. Lisa sighed quietly, but was thankful for a few minutes of respite from his constant harassment. He was a good kid, actually. Funny how she thought him a child, even though they were about the same age. He was honest to a fault, very smart, but just so… annoying!

  Lisa worked through the kitchen to the restaurant’s back dock. Through greasy metal doors waited salvation: the smoking area. And the dumpster. She stepped into the concrete cell walled on three sides by the brick of the building. Most of the space was given to the massive garbage dumpster. A concrete ramp led down to its mouth, always open, always hungry. She wrinkled her nose at the putrid smell. Strange smears of bla
ck and brown streaked across the concrete, indicating years of employees’ dragging canisters of restaurant refuse. Potato peelings were mercilessly driven into the concrete. She moved to her favorite spot—blessedly free of stains, but weeded with cigarette butts. She kicked aside the browned and smashed filters as if they were dead leaves, then leaned against the cool brick.

  Lisa fished her lighter from the half-empty pack and lit a cigarette. She sucked it all in, loving it. Only slowly did she let out the smoke. She never used to smoke so much, but after meeting the trying Mr. Arno—and having to endure an extra hour daily with Wayne—she found the numbers increasing dramatically. She smoked in shadow, for the sun’s rays rarely penetrated to the floor of the cell. This was a good thing, Lisa decided, despite her shivering in the cool. The sun made her freckles worse, not to mention the dumpster was the nastiest thing on Earth and deserved to skulk in the shadows like the monster it was.

  Tomorrow she would bring her script again, most definitely. Wayne had offered on more than one occasion to help with her lines. To her chagrin, she realized his help would only make sense. How else to pass the time, while waiting for Mr. Arno to finish his creepy lunch? She would just have to make it very, very clear to Wayne that this was not an invitation for any late-night script readings or anything else. The cigarette went too fast. She dropped the butt and kicked it into the depths between the dumpster and the ramp.

  When Lisa returned, Wayne dropped a greasy plate onto the cart with a look of profound disgust. The service cart in the kitchen was designated for this purpose and loaded with stacks of other soiled plates. Yet there was something unsettling about the unique grease-stains on that one plate. Lisa knew instantly it had been Mr. Arno’s.

  Wayne wiped his hands and then saw her. He pounced like a monkey on a cupcake.

  “Number three is done!”

  “Ugh, you mean he had three full plates of shrimp?” Lisa asked, trying not to gag at the thought.

  “Yep!” Wayne said, fairly bouncing with enthusiasm.

  Though she had enjoyed the mental comparison to a monkey, his behavior was actually much closer to that of a dog. No doubt he wanted to hump her leg. He was painfully innocent, almost pathetic. It was hard for her to be annoyed with him for too long. She resolved to try harder.

  Lisa strode up the carpeted service ramp that led to the dining room and leaned against the wall. She tried vainly to take her mind off this last customer’s eating habits and Wayne’s lack of social grace. But if she couldn’t do it with a cigarette, she had no chance of doing it in the restaurant.

  “Miss?” came a voice across the dining room. There was only one man in the room. Table 29.5. He must have seen her peeking from behind the partition. Instantly she materialized at his side, hoping for the magic words.

  “Yes, Mr. Arno?”

  “I’ll take the check at your convenience,” he said kindly. His smile was somewhat disarming, almost letting her forget his disgusting practices. The teeth, though slightly stained, were genuinely revealed in the smile. Yet she was unable to look at them without thinking of the horrendous quantity of shrimp they destroyed. But then again, he rarely chewed anything. Rather, he swallowed the vast number whole.

  Stupidly and without thinking, she slipped into waitress mode. “No dessert?”

  “No,” he answered rather mechanically.

  She was thrilled to hear it—positively giddy, in fact. Until his next words.

  “Just three plates at this phase. Tomorrow will be different, though.”

  3

  Lisa glanced about, nervous as a tick. Perspiration beaded upon her forehead. She felt immensely uncomfortable. The grease-smeared plate at table 29.5 was ready to be collected, along with a huge mound of shrimp debris. There were easily hundreds of broken and split shrimp shells and legs piled obscenely on the table. Of Mr. Arno there was no sign. That meant he was en route to the buffet line yet again.

  Where was Wayne? He was always hovering when unwanted, but now that there was a table to clear, he was gone. No, there he was, busy bussing a table. She sighed.

  She strode toward the pillar with purpose, mind bent on reaching and clearing that plate and the hideous body parts before the freak came back. He was nice and all, but just too damn creepy. At least he tipped well. The white-haired Mr. Arno had come every day for a full week, every day eating his bizarre pyramid of shrimp. The routine had varied only in volume, which was the creepiest thing of all: it had grown by an additional plate for every day! As if he hadn’t cut into her free time before… now she was getting genuinely angry. His screwed-up ritual took longer and longer every day.

  Snarfing down all those prawns was showing on him, too. His formerly trim figure had begun to stretch outward. Within just a week, Lisa had witnessed his belly move from flat to pouring over his belt. Apparently he had a larger wardrobe ready, because his pants were not stretched.

  Lisa snatched up the empty plate, then hastily scooped shells and tails and legs and lemon rinds onto it. There was far too much for her to collect onto the one plate. The realization was revolting. The unpleasant task was not finished, but temporarily eased. She scurried back toward the service station, desperate to rid herself of the disgusting load. Near the folding screen that blocked the view to the service area, she was halted by the high-pitched tone customers preferred when addressing their waiters.

  “Miss?”

  Lisa froze in her tracks. Fortunately the word was not spoken by him. No, it was the ladies at table 26. They were two middle-aged housewife-types enjoying a late lunch out. One wore the most profound purple hat Lisa had ever seen, even in the dining room. It was nothing short of a sombrero, albeit with birds stitched onto it. Lisa instantly sized up their character as only a waitress can.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “We were wondering, what’s the secret of this shrimp?”

  Her nerves flashed like lightning, but she realized their request was completely innocent. They had no concept at all of Mr. Arno’s fierce shrimp predation and bizarre eating habits. They had both shared a small, appropriate portion of the peel-and-eat prawns. Mercifully, the discarded shells rested neatly on a side plate.

  Smiling her most charming smile, Lisa answered, “The secret? Well, we all have secrets, but…”

  She leaned forward conspiratorially. They mirrored her with interest.

  “Some say, when the moon is full… they dance around the fire in their underpants.”

  Eyes widened in surprise. Silence hung heavy. Suddenly Purple Hat burst into laughter. Her laughter was even more profound than her hat—if that were possible—growing and growing until she began snorting. Lisa smiled, pleased to have read her guest correctly. Purple Hat’s friend, however, did not react well at all. The woman frowned deeply at such unwarranted levity. Her friend’s continued snorts only seemed to annoy her more. Before the woman had a chance to voice criticism, Lisa smoothly continued, “I’m sorry, it was just a silly little joke that came to mind. Of course you were asking about the recipe?”

  Through her frown, the disgruntled guest nodded. Purple Hat’s snorting had settled into snuffling. She wiped away a few errant tears, then playfully slapped her friend’s hand, chiding, “Really, Amanda, you must lighten up.”

  “As far as I know,” Lisa said, “They just boil them. I’m sure there’s something in the water, though. I know Chef takes great care in selecting his ingredients. Let me see if he can come out and speak with you.”

  Lisa shot through the service station, down the carpeted hallway’s ramp, and plunged into the noise and bustle of the kitchen. She was only too happy to be rid of the horrid pile of shells and legs. Disgusting, the leftovers of other people’s food. Even after a week, she hadn’t gotten used to the repulsive eating habits of Mr. Arno. His mouth was like a garbage disposal with a mustache.

  Wayne materialized from the dining room bearing a tray loaded with plates. He deftly eased the weight onto a folding stand. Despite herself, Lisa had to adm
it his strength was impressive. What he held aloft with one arm, she would struggle to hold up with two—balanced on her shoulder. But that didn’t mean she wanted to talk to him.

  Spying Chef walking by—it was impossible not to—Lisa quickly used the opportunity for escape.

  “Uncle Tony!” she called across the kitchen. “Chef!”

  “Oh, hey Lisa,” he said, shuffling over to her.

  Chef Tony was a remarkably tall man, reaching nearly seven feet. Lisa’s little figure brought her forehead barely past his waist. But today he did not stand tall. Rather, he drooped like a flower pummeled by a hard rain. No doubt he was hungover again. He had been drinking a lot lately. A week ago, he’d shaved off his hair because he didn’t care anymore. Meanwhile he had not shaved his face at all. He had gone from a polished up-and-coming professional to a scruffy back-alley drunkard. Certain habits were ingrained deeply, however: his chef coat—though wrinkled—was fastidiously clean.

  His sudden transformation made sense, though. He was going through a rough divorce. Tony’s wife—Lisa’s own Aunt Lisa—was really dragging him through the coals. It was such a shame because he was a nice man. His ambitions of opening his own restaurant had been utterly shattered by her selfish behavior. Every penny he had saved for years went to lawyers just to keep what he had before he met her. He might as well hand it all over and save himself the crippling stress. His money was surely lost anyway. Lisa loved her Uncle Tony and felt embarrassed to be named after his witch of a wife.

  As her uncle slumped forward, Lisa suddenly found herself reflecting upon not his issues, but her own. Tony had a real reason for his haggard appearance. Lisa, on the other hand, was undergoing a trial she didn’t understand at all. Even a little help was all she wanted. She wished she could hide her hair behind a chef’s hat. She hadn’t bothered with the tangle in a week. You’d think that a pixie cut would be easy to maintain, but it wasn’t. When she’d had a ponytail, she’d just grab, wrap, and go. Now her short hair looked frizzy, or uneven, or it spiked weirdly. It wasn’t just that she was out of time—though she was, courtesy of Mr. Arno—but what little time she had was spent on fixing her other problems.