Steve never tipped and he always shortchanged people. That’s something that we don’t have to worry about anymore. It was really annoying to go anywhere with him, because if he used cash, he always paid less. When using his credit card, he’d take all the cash and claimed he added the tip to the credit card slip, but Steve never did. This infuriated Viking Steve, or now the only Steve, and me, because we worried of getting bad service or a hidden surprise in our food, compliments of our waiter and/or cook.
Steve mopped the traces of ketchup with the last bit of his rare, almost blue, cheeseburger. One satisfied gulp later, and only a pyramid of undisturbed fries remained on his plate. This meant we’re going to be here a while.
When asked why he doesn’t tip, Steve would make the following points: Tipping, as well as the amount to tip, was optional. Tips are part of the job’s salary. And if they wanted a job that paid more, they should get one.
Steve sighed. “That’s a great burger.” He nodded to my dish. “The Special worth it?”
“Yeah, it wasn’t bad.”
The Special was actually quite good. The food here always is. But, I killed my best friend. Shouldn’t I grieve or something, instead of feeling content for finishing a meal with a close friend and simplifying my life by eliminating an irritating one?
Shouldn’t I be developing a type of complex? Begin seeing his ghost? Imagine his blood on my hands? Or hearing the dull thud of his heartbeat coming from the sack where his body—or majority of his body—is now in rest? Perhaps Steve’s heart is thudding away this very moment. Pity if it is, because the bag is in the backseat of the car, where no one can hear it. Still, if I had the chance, I would take everything back and not kill Steve. For all his faults, he was a decent guy. Well, he was a guy anyway. Once I read that people don’t eat when something is wrong with them. So I must be fine, because not only did I eat, but enjoyed it.
Our waitress, Maggie, approached the table holding a large pitcher of water in one hand and a glass of soda in the other. Her green hair band matched her eyes and tacky uniform.
Good old Maggie. She always takes care of us. How many guys tonight assumed you were thirty? They’d be off by at least twelve years since you’re over forty. True to form, Steve would never tip her. Such a shame, because Maggie has a gift—she knows what we want and how we prefer our food, which we love since we normally take forever deciding what to order. Even though Maggie makes our decisions for us, it never expedites our time spent in the restaurant. Some might call us lazy, but we call it digesting.
“Well, you guys were hungry.” Maggie filled my glass of water and placed the soda in front of Steve.
“Maggie, my dear, you are angel,” Steve said. “My compliments to Deon. He’s a great cook.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him.” Maggie cleared the table, except for our drinks and Steve’s untouched fries. “I figured your other friend would be here by now. Only you two tonight?”
Steve slowly began eating his fries. “Yeah.”
Maggie leaned into our table. “Just between us,” she whispered, “your friend is kind of weird. He is always leering at the other girls here.”
“Really?”
Maggie swiftly sat down in the booth next to me and snatched a couple of Steve’s fries. “Yeah, no one thinks too highly of him. But don’t tell him that I told you that.”
“Of course,” Steve whispered.
Maggie gave a playful wink and stood up. “Too bad you two weren’t here earlier. A few college girls around your age left a little while ago. I would’ve done introductions.”
“Thanks, Maggie.”
Maggie picked up our empty dishes with a smile and headed to the kitchen.
Steve looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
I reached for my glass of water. “I shouldn’t have killed him.”
“Oh, come on, not even Maggie and the others cared for him! At least we don’t have to worry about him not pitching in for tip. Or worse, not paying. I mean, who goes out with friends, carries no money, orders food, then doesn’t pay? Who does that?”
I looked down at my water.
“All right,” Steve casually stated. “What are we going to do with the body?”
His nonchalant comment startled me so much that my legs hit the bottom of our table.
“Are you crazy?” I hissed at him. “Talking so openly?”
Steve cocked his head back and yelled at the ceiling, “Where the fuck are we going to put the dead body?”
I nervously looked around, but people minded their own business. A few of them looked at us with annoyed glares. Across the room Maggie stood at a table taking their order. She briefly made eye contact, gave a smile, and cheerfully resumed working.
“See?” Steve said with a cool “I told you so” attitude. “To them, we’re two geeky, stupid guys who don’t know any better. How many times have we been in here discussing various role-playing adventures that included slaying dragons, dismembering zombies, or killing people?” Steve motioned to the patrons of the restaurant. “They don’t care. They probably think we’re talking about a silly video game. And if by chance they ask us, all we have to do is tell ’em that it’s something we saw on TV. But they won’t.”
Steve rewarded himself with a fry. He chewed it with much over exaggeration.
He’s right. No one here cares, or can even assume that we came from hacking up our friend.
Steve leaned over the table toward me and smiled. “The best way to play things is out in the open. That’s why we have our friend just sitting in the backseat of the car.”
“Isn’t it because your trunk is broken?”
“Yeah, it’s that too. But seriously, what are we going to do with the body?”
I shrugged.
I feel a measure of relief with our newfound openness.
Steve pointed a fry at me. “Those big mailboxes! I heard the cops can’t tamper with items that have been placed in them. You could put guns, knives, weapons—”
I cut Steve off with a raised index finger. “We are not stuffing it in a mailbox!”
Steve chewed loudly. “Okay, we mail him somewhere! We go on the Internet, look up a random person on the other side of the world, and put down a fake return address. Oh! We could mail him to a place in Canada, look up a hotel, figure when he’ll arrive, and go to the hotel to receive it. Then we pick another place internationally, repeat, always using fake names. Finally mail it to another address! That way it will be harder to trace it back to us! It could be our own version of that movie with the dead guy.”
I shook my head. “No, that would take too long and cost too much.”
“Yeah. Plus he would stink after a bit. Okay, we keep to really cold places.”
“No!”
“All right, fine.”
“The holidays are near, suicides increase. We could push him in front of a train. If people see us, we say he was drunk and slipped.”
“Dude, we already cut him up.”
“Yeah, I know. But that idea might have worked.”
Steve took a swig of his soda then burped. “I got it! He is already packaged. We get weights—better, rocks!—and sink it to the bottom of the lake. Do this shit Sopranos-style and get it done!”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
He finished his soda. “Why not? In life you’re either laughing or you’re crying. Besides, we’re really creative guys. I’m sure we could come up with some ingenious plan.”
Maggie came around the corner. “Anything else I could do for you two?”
“No, I think we’re good.”
Maggie slipped our bill on the table with a smile. “Have a great night guys. See you soon!”
Maggie went to her next table of customers.
I reached for my wallet, but Steve held up his hand for me to stop. “Nah, man, it’s cool.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, we’re good.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me
.” Steve took out his wallet and dropped an amount that totaled more than three times the bill. “Compliments of Steve.”
“Are you serious?”
Steve sighed heavily. “He’s not going to need this. How did you think I knew he wasn’t an organ—”
Steve stopped talking as Maggie returned.
Maggie’s eyes widened as she saw the cash on the table. “Wow, guess you’ll be needing some change.”
Steve waved his hand at the kitchen. “Split it with the others. From our friend who isn’t here.”
“Really?”
“Totally.” Steve nodded to me. “We had a nice long talk with him about his tipping habits, and he felt bad. He told us to pass this on to everyone as compensation for past services rendered.”
“Well, I’ll be. You know, I didn’t want to say anything, but we all knew your friend was a horrible tipper. A few of us always heard you arguing over the bill. But you tell him thank you and I’ll make sure that everyone gets a portion of this—”
Maggie paused and raised an eyebrow in suspicion. “Wait a minute. Are you the bank robbers? Because the reward for turning you in is more than this!”
Steve held up his hands. “Oh, we give up!”
Maggie laughed. “Thanks guys, and tell your friend we all said thank you.”
She headed back to the kitchen with the money in hand.
I smiled to Steve. “Now that’s really nice.”
“Well, I’m not the prick. He’s in the car. I wonder why he had so much cash on him.”
“Yeah, that is kind of odd.”
“Guess he lost faith in banks. Let’s roll.”
Steve’s ghost will probably haunt us now for using his money in such a way. Once, he made a big scene at a high-class steakhouse. To be honest, it ruined the night, especially for our dates. Because of that substantial tip to Maggie and the others, I’m sure Steve will find a way to come back from the dead and get revenge. Or at least put a curse on us.
Chapter Three
I Didn't Mean to Kill My Best Friend Page 2