The Institution

by Kristen Rose

Hundreds of kilometres away Detective O’Connell slowly pulls his white Volvo into the deserted car park of a dilapidated shopping complex. The sun shines high in the sky reflecting off of the cement, its warmth complemented with an icy breeze. The Volvo traces the car park until it comes to a stop outside a small Mexican restaurant.

  O’Connell’s lean figure steps lightly out of his old car, eyes scanning the neighbouring shops; only two of them remain un-abandoned. One, a second hand clothing store on the other side of the car park and the second, a small post office immediately to the left of the restaurant.

  O’Connell walks confidently towards the entrance of the restaurant, eyeing the façade.

  Faded red and yellow paint is peeling off the outside walls; shards of it litter the blackened pavement like confetti. The sign on the glass door reads La I ie ta; a faded blue ‘open’ sign hangs limply beneath it.

  O’Connell strides up to the door and opens it, a small collection of bells clatter above his head. Immediately, O’Connell is confronted by loud Hispanic beats blaring out of small speakers spaced out along the walls of the dining area. O’Connell looks around the empty restaurant, jumping when a young, thin man with curly blonde hair appears from his left side, zooming straight up to him; a faded green menu in one hand, a glittering orange and red sombrero perched on top of his head and a black apron tied tightly around his girlish waist. His grin matches the vibrant colours of his sombrero.

  ‘Hello sir, welcome to La Fiesta. Will you be dining with us today?’ The young man enthuses.

  ‘Yes,’ replies O’Connell. ‘A table for one if you’ve got it.’ O’Connell smiles. The young man looks around the deserted restaurant.

  ‘Yes sir, I think we might be able to spare a table for you.’ He grins. ‘Would you like a booth or a table?’

  ‘Um, I don’t really mind, anywhere is fine.’ O’Connell shrugs.

  ‘Okay. Follow me then.’ His waiter skips towards a table for two at the far right side of the restaurant next to a grimy window overlooking the deserted highway, O’Connell follows. He motions towards the table. O’Connell takes off his faded beige jacket, revealing a thin white cotton shirt, and hangs it casually off the back of one of the splintered wooden chairs. He tugs the chair away from the table and sits down, tucking his brown polyester tie close to his chest. The waiter hands him the menu.

  ‘I’m Jason, your waiter for today.’ He pauses. ‘Can I get you anything to drink first?’ With an eager hand he pulls an order pad out of his apron pocket and slips a pen out from behind his ear.

  ‘Oh, just some water thanks.’

  ‘Sure thing, I’ll be back as fast as possible.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need to rush, I’m not in a hurry.’ O’Connell leans back casually.

  ‘Well in that case, I’ll be back as slow as possible.’ The young man laughs. O’Connell joins him, laughing awkwardly. The young man then turns and skips lightly away, heading towards the kitchen.

  O’Connell glances at the menu quickly before turning his attention to the rest of the room. His eyes scan every dusty inch and cobwebbed surface until they reach the small hallway leading to the kitchen. He leans forward into the table stretching his long body across it, attempting to get a better view. The table scrapes a few inches along the terracotta floor, the noise muffled by a flamenco guitar solo echoing around the room. O’Connell leans further still but snaps back quickly into his chair when he catches a glimpse of a flaming sombrero racing towards him.

  Jason appears, brandishing a round tray. On it, a tall cup of iced water, a circular plate of dips and a small, wooden bowl filled with corn chips.

  ‘Here you go sir.’ Jason says politely. ‘Your water,’ he places the tall frosted yellow plastic cup on the table, to the left of O’Connell’s hand, ‘and a complementary dip platter.’ He settles the cacti decorated plate of dips and the wooden bowl full of corn chips directly in front of O’Connell. ‘Are you ready to order your main meal?’ He asks, pulling back lightly.

  ‘Yes, I’ll have the ah ...’ O’Connell scans the menu once more, ‘Mexican Chicken please.’ He says vaguely.

  ‘Fantastic choice!’ The waiter beams. ‘Would you like any side dishes?’ Jason’s pen is glued to his order pad.

  ‘No, no I think that will be plenty for me.’ O’Connell taps his flat stomach. ‘Say, what happened to the other chap who used to work here, what was his name?’ O’Connell asks casually while Jason scribbles down his order.

  The waiter thinks for a moment. ‘Oh, you mean Quin?’ He bounces.

  ‘Yes, Quin, that was it. He’s been here for years, what happened to him?’ O’Connell tilts his head.

  ‘Oh, he’s just gone on holidays. I’m filling in.’

  ‘Really? How long has he been away for?’ O’Connell’s interested eyes stare into the waiter.

  He pauses. ‘About a month ...’ He says eventually.

  ‘When does he get back?’

  ‘I’m not sure ... My boss didn’t tell me.’ The waiter eyes O’Connell suspiciously.

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying, you’re a much better waiter than Quin.’ O’Connell’s winks, distracting him with his complement.

  ‘Oh, thanks! I think I was born to do this, only, I haven’t had much experience. You’re my third customer. Since I started working here, I mean, not today. And the other two were my parents so I don’t think they count ...’ He adds sheepishly.

  ‘Yes, well, this place isn’t in the best location. It would probably do a lot more business if there were a few more people in the area.’ O’Connell states.

  ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right. So ... you must be a regular?’

  ‘Well, I come every now and then, so I guess you could say that.’ An awkward silence follows. ‘Say, is there a restroom here? Funnily enough, I’ve never needed to use it before.’ O’Connell laughs lightly.

  ‘Yeah, just go towards the kitchen but turn left instead of right. You can’t miss it.’ The waiter points behind him.

  ‘Oh, okay. Thanks.’ O’Connell peers down the narrow hallway.

  ‘Right, well, I better give your order to the cook.’ Jason smiles, tapping the order pad. He prances back to the kitchen.

  O’Connell remains seated watching the waiter as he bounces away. When his sombrero disappears from view O’Connell turns his attention to the complementary platter of dips in front him; his stomach bellowing with hunger.

  Three different types of dip sit before him, neatly arranged on the plate in their own individual ceramic bowls; a bright red chunky salsa, a concoction of refried beans, and a slightly blackened guacamole. O’Connell leans in and picks up a corn chip from the wooden bowl in front of him, carefully dipping it into the salsa. He smothers the chip in the chunky red substance, bringing it towards his crooked nose and inhaling deeply before moving it down towards his thin lips and placing the chip into his mouth. He starts to chew, a strange taste fills his mouth, and his jaw begins to move in a similar motion to that of a cow chewing grass. After a long minute of concentrated mastication, O’Connell allows the chip to sink down his throat, clutching his right fist to his chest with a pained expression. He covers his mouth quickly with his other hand and coughs rapidly, shards of corn fly out into his palm – instant relief.

  He drags the plate closer towards his chest; the aged porcelain scrapes painfully along the colourful tiled surface of the table. He picks up a second chip and bends it. It complies, folding in half without breaking. He moves his face even closer towards the plate, his crooked nose a mere centre metre away from swimming in the guacamole. His eyes fill with disgust observing faint bits of mould speckled on every single corn chip and a nice colony growing in the centre of the guacamole. The refried beans also coated in fluffy moss, coloured hairs sprouting out of their skins. O’Connell pushes the plate as far away from sight as he can and lunges for his cup of water. He takes a huge swig and swirls the icy liquid inside his mouth before swallowing. His lips smack with content. He g
oes to take another gulp but stops, angling the cup towards his eyes instead only to observe a black fly frozen inside one of the ice cubes. His forehead scrunches and his nose twitches upwards. He cries out in distaste.

  He returns the cup to the table and returns his gaze towards the kitchen. Slowly, he pushes his chair backwards and stands up, wiping his hands on his beige pants. He leaves the chair a metre away from the table and swiftly heads towards the corridor leading to the restroom. When he approaches the end of the hallway he tilts his head to the left and stares into the kitchen. His waiter, Jason, is in front of the stove flipping over a piece of half cooked chicken breast. O’Connell’s eyes widen with surprise; there is no cook.

  He lingers a moment before continuing at a slow pace, following the narrow hallway as it shifts left. He stares at the faded yellow walls, the dusty plastic parakeets hanging from the ceiling, until he comes to three doors; two towards his left, one towards his right. Out of the two doors on his left, one has Caballeros, and the other Dammas printed on the front in a faint elegant gold. The third door on his right has PRIVATE traced along it in the same elegant gold. He walks straight towards the latter door and without hesitation proceeds to turn the handle.

  ‘Hey, that’s not the men’s room.’ O’Connell turns rapidly. Jason is standing outside the kitchen door wiping his hands with a tea towel, his face red.

  ‘It’s not?’ O’Connell asks innocently.

  ‘No. It says private not restroom.’

  ‘I thought it was a private restroom.’ O’Connell shrugs.

  ‘Well, it’s not. Why would you want to go in a private restroom anyway? There’s nothing wrong with the men’s room.’ Jason is short with him.

  ‘Yes, well, I ... er ... didn’t know which one was the men’s room.’ O’Connell pauses. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know a word of Spanish. I didn’t want to go in the wrong one so I thought I would be safe going in the staff one.’ O’Connell feigns embarrassment, crossing his arms in front of his body.

  ‘I can’t speak Spanish either, but I’ve seen enough movies to know that caballeros means gentlemen in Spanish.’ The waiter spits.

  ‘Well, I ... er ... don’t get around to seeing many movies. So,’ another awkward pause, ‘— caballeros you say. Right well, I guess I’ll go through the door that says caballeros.’ He chuckles. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Jason glares.

  He eyes O’Connell suspiciously as he turns casually and walks through the door marked Caballeros. The door squeals open, slowly grinding shut behind him. O’Connell opens his eyes widely taking in the mass of ceramic green, yellow and blue tiles covering the bathroom. Three washed out yellow cubicles, each with a faded sombrero painted on the door, are on the right side of the room. A basin opposite them filled with green scum, one solitary tap dripping to its own tune. O’Connell walks over to it and looks into the foggy mirror above; a furious face stares back. He paces around the small room letting the minutes slip by; footsteps echoing eerily.

  When enough time has passed, he walks quickly to the door and re-enters the narrow hall. Jason is still standing in the kitchen doorway, staring, arms crossed. O’Connell smiles at him when he passes the kitchen, walking quickly and purposefully back to his table and the sounds of a Mariachi band. He throws himself into his chair, a crack splinters down one of the wooden legs. O’Connell ignores it, placing an elbow on the table and leaning his head into his palm; his thin lips forming a pout. He stares out the cloudy window, watching the vacant highway.

  Fifteen minutes later the waiter returns with O’Connell’s lunch. He throws the plate and some cutlery in front of O’Connell and quickly returns to the kitchen without a word. O’Connell stares down at the golden piece of chicken, smothered in a rich tomato salsa, garnished with wilted coriander. He picks up his knife and fork and slices into the fat chicken breast – the inside raw. O’Connell tosses the knife and fork onto the plate with a loud sigh. Slipping his left hand into his pant pocket he pulls out a tattered brown wallet, forces it open and yanks out a scrunched up twenty dollar note; tossing it onto the table. Rising out of his chair he quickly collects his jacket, jams his long arms furiously into it and storms out of the restaurant. He slams the door shut; the bells above it rumbling.

  Once outside O’Connell turns towards the post office.

  He enters the small building, silently taking in the room. An isolated and dusty fake pot plant leans up against one of the stale white walls; a fan spins lazily above. At the end of the room, a middle aged woman with a pudgy face and purple lips is sitting behind a grey counter; red talons grasping firmly onto a gossip magazine. She glances up as O’Connell enters the store and quickly folds the corner page of her magazine, stuffing it under the counter. O’Connell’s feet pound silently on the grey carpet as he approaches her.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ He says, stopping inches from the woman’s painted face.

  ‘Hello.’ The woman eyes him curiously. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the place next door.’ He jerks his head in the direction of the restaurant.

  ‘Oh?’ The woman’s overly plucked eyebrows arch quizzically.

  ‘Yes. Do you know the owner?’ O’Connell drums his fingers mindlessly on the counter.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Do you know what he looks like at least?’

  ‘Umm ...’ She glances behind her.

  O’Connell speaks impatiently. ‘Blonde hair, muscles, arrogant demeanour.’

  ‘Oh ...’ The woman giggles. ‘Yes, I’ve certainly seen that man.’ She poufs her hair.

  ‘Tell me, how often does he come here?’ O’Connell leans closer.

  ‘Why?’ The woman pulls away.

  ‘I’m just curious.’ O’Connell says simply with a smile.

  ‘I really don’t think it’s any of your business.’ She snaps.

  O’Connell pulls his faded wallet out of his pocket again and shows the woman his police badge. A spark ignites in her eyes. He repeats his question.

  ‘Hardly ever.’ She says quickly, resting her chin into her hand.

  ‘I don’t suppose you could give me some kind of estimation?’

  ‘I usually see him once a month perhaps, maybe twice. Why does it matter?’ She wheels her chair sideways a little.

  O’Connell ignores her question. ‘Do they get much mail next door?’

  ‘Mail?’ She squints.

  ‘Yes, isn’t this a post office?’ He patronises.

  ‘It is, yes.’ She glares. ‘But I don’t have the authority to give you that information.’

  ‘Is there anyone here who does have that authority?’ O’Connell looks around the deserted foyer.

  ‘No.’ She folds her arms. ‘Manager’s gone home for the day.’

  O’Connell returns her glare. ‘Thank you.’ His tone icy. ‘Have a pleasant afternoon.’

  The woman grins. ‘You too.’

  O’Connell slips his wallet back inside his pocket and strides out of the building, caring little when the door slams shut.

  He continues quickly down the faded bitumen path until he reaches the second hand clothing store at the other end of the complex.

  A delicate sign above the door reads Out with the Old, in with the Second Hand. The neat and clean exterior is white and freshly painted with a deep blue wooden door standing out in the centre; two flower gardens on either side housing fake marigolds and poppies. O’Connell skips up the three cement steps leading to the blue door and opens it. A loud ‘ding dong’ proceeds. He closes the door carefully behind him and walks towards a minuscule counter at the back of the shop where a man is sitting. The shop is small and cluttered.

  He approaches the counter taking in the elderly shopkeeper, dressed casually in grey pants and a matching knitted V-neck jumper; his nose large and his eyes cloudy.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ O’Connell calls out as he approaches the counter.
<
br />   ‘Yes, it is isn’t it? Such lovely whether, even with the cold breeze. Hopefully it doesn’t get too cold. I don’t take well to the cold these days.’ The man cringes.

  ‘Nor do I, and I’m from Scotland.’ O’Connell laughs.

  ‘Really? You know, my parents came from Scotland. From a small town called Helmsdale. Do you know it?’

  O’Connell pauses, thinking. ‘Helmsdale, it doesn’t ring a bell.’ He says apologetically.

  ‘I think it’s on the east coast.’ The man says.

  ‘I’m from the southern end. Glasgow to be precise.’ His head wavers.

  ‘Ah, yes, I’ve heard of Glasgow. You know, I always wanted to go to Scotland but I never got around to it. Is it nice there?’

  ‘It’s lovely.’ O’Connell says.

  The elderly man smiles. ‘So, are you here on a holiday?’ He shifts around in his seat.

  ‘No, I live here actually, have done for the last ten years.’

  ‘And this is your first visit to my shop!’ The man playfully scorns.

  ‘Yes, well, I don’t get a lot of spare time with my job.’

  ‘Oh, what do you do?’ The man raises his eyebrows.

  ‘I’m a detective, for the police. So usually when I go places it’s for work not pleasure.’

  ‘I see ... And are you here now for work or for pleasure?’ The shopkeeper raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Work, to be honest.’ O’Connell blushes.

  ‘Well then, what can I help you with detective ...’ The man lingers, not knowing his name.

  ‘O’Connell.’ He pauses. ‘I wanted to ask you a few questions regarding the restaurant at the other end of the complex.’ O’Connell points towards the sparkling window where the restaurant is perfectly visible.

  ‘Oh, now that doesn’t surprise me.’ The man chuckles.

  ‘Why’s that?’ O’Connell frowns.

  ‘Well, the amount of funny business that goes on there I’m surprised it’s taken this long for someone to come investigating.’ He explains.

  ‘Funny business?’ O’Connell’s heart skips a beat.

  ‘Yes, I often see unusual people over there, coming and going. And on more than one occasion I have seen them come and never go.’

  ‘Really? What kind of people? I mean, how are they funny?’ O’Connell leans onto the counter.

  ‘Well, I guess when I say funny I mean the people don’t look like your average restaurant goer. I see people dressed up as if they were going to a function, others looking as though they were dragged there from the wilderness and some look as if they’re going in there to pick a fight. Those kinds of people … I only ever see once, but there is one man the goes there quite often. He’s always well dressed, usually in a suit and he drives a black car. I can’t imagine why he goes there, the food is terrible.’ The man scrunches his face.

  ‘This man, would you say he’s in his mid-thirties with blonde hair?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him. Is he in trouble? I’m mean, is he the man you’re after?’ The elderly man whispers.

  ‘Well, he is the man that is of interest to me ... He’s actually the owner of the restaurant, that’s why he goes there so often.’ O’Connell explains.

  ‘Oh, I thought the owner was one of the men who worked there. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen either of them there for a while now ... A young skinny boy has been working there instead.’

  ‘Yes. You’re very observant!’ O’Connell applauds. ‘I was just in there and he said that the other waiter is on holiday, but he implied the cook was still there. However, I happened to look in the kitchen and there wasn’t a cook in there at all, he was the one cooking.’

  ‘That’s strange. Why would he tell you the cook is there when he hasn’t been there for a while?’

  ‘I don’t know ...’ O’Connell pauses. ‘When you say a while, what time frame are you talking about exactly?’

  ‘Oh, I’d say about a month or two, maybe a little longer. The older I get, the harder it is to keep track of time …’

  O’Connell nods, digesting the man’s words. ‘I was wondering if you could describe one of them to me. I’ve seen the waiter many times, but never the cook. Do you know what he looks like?’

  ‘Yes. He looks rather similar to the waiter, actually. Dark hair, young, but he’s certainly not as ... muscular as the waiter and perhaps a little shorter.’

  ‘Hmm ... that doesn’t really help much, but thanks anyway.’ O’Connell smiles lightly. ‘Can you tell me if you’ve seen anything especially unusual lately, whether it be a person or an event, anything at all really.’ He casually folds his arms.

  ‘Well, now that you mention it …’ the man pauses, ‘there is one thing but it could just be coincidence ... I mean I only noticed it by chance.’ The man gently disregards.

  ‘Go on ...’ O’Connell gestures.

  ‘Well, you may not have seen this but in the paper last week there was an article about a doctor who was found dead near a farm not so far from here.’

  ‘Dr Harrison Granger?’ O’Connell’s eye light up.

  ‘Yes, that was it. Well, this might not mean anything but he was here, well not here, but over at the restaurant, a few months ago. I’m certain it was him. A very large man with a moustache. And the man, the one you said was the owner, well he was here at the same time.

  ‘I only mention it because I remember thinking at the time how odd the man looked, I mean, he looked scared. I don’t know about you but I don’t usually look scared when I enter a restaurant.’ He chortles. ‘Although, that particular restaurant …’

  ‘That is interesting.’ O’Connell says slowly. ‘How long did Granger stay for?’

  ‘Not long. Maybe ten minutes. I assumed he left after tasting the complementary dips.’ The man shrugs.

  ‘I know what you mean ...’ O’Connell grimaces. ‘Did he look scared when he arrived, or when he left?’

  ‘He did when he arrived. When he left he looked angry. That’s why I assumed it was the food. Do you think it may have had something to do with the owner?’

  ‘Well, it’s hard to say. Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t.’ O’Connell shrugs. ‘It does interest me to know that there is a possibility the owner knew the doctor.’

  ‘The owner, is he dangerous?’ The man leans back.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t really go into any details about that.’ O’Connell pauses, looking around the cluttered store. ‘You haven’t by chance happened to have noticed whether any other visitors to the restaurant have wound up dead have you?’ He looks back at the owner, sheepishly.

  The man laughs ‘No, I’m afraid he’s the only one.’

  ‘Well, it’s a start I guess.’ He stops. ‘Tell you what, I’ll give you my card, that way, if you notice anything else unusual, you can give me a call.’

  ‘Of course, I’d be happy to.’

  O’Connell pulls out his wallet a third time and removes a faded business card. He hands it to the man who places it inside a drawer underneath the counter. ‘I’m not in any danger, am I?’ He asks after putting the card away.

  ‘No, no of course not.’ O’Connell smiles. ‘Well, I better get going. Thank you for your help.

  ‘Don’t forget, if you see anything, or if you feel concerned or scared, please call me.’ O’Connell gives him a kind smile.

  ‘Of course.’ The man nods.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ O’Connell leans forward and grasps the man’s hand into a firm shake before turning and heading steadily to the door. When he exits, he skips down the stairs, almost dancing to his car. He hops in quickly, a huge smile plastered onto his face.

  #16 Goodbye