Grinder by Mike Knowles Read Free Book Online Page B

downtown away from the bright lights of chain stores and their younger clientele. The restaurant had a sign up that read “New Management.” I figured it must have once been a lousy dive and someone must have still believed it could make a comeback. I could tell that the owner and I were the only ones who thought so when I walked through the smoke-grey glass doors into the vacant dining room.
    The restaurant smelled wonderful, and I wondered what gruesome hidden secrets caused the management turnover. I took a seat in front of the dark-tinted glass so that I could see outside without being observed from the parking lot. I ordered gyros and ate them with water. The owner was pleasant and chatty, but both qualities faded as I ate in silence. The place stayed empty for the twenty minutes I ate; there were no other staff — just the owner and me. He was a short Arab man with a stubbly shaved head whose body shook from time to time with uncontrollable spasms. With each episode, he seemed to grit his teeth in an attempt to will himself to regain stillness. He was washing a plate behind the counter when I yelled out to him.
    “Slow night?”
    “No sir, it's off to a very good start.”
    I figured I was the beginning of a dinner rush in his mind. “How many do you get for dinner?”
    There was a spasm then an answer. “Very many, sir.”
    It was clear the owner was an optimistic, glass-is-half-full sort of guy. “How many people are working with you tonight?” Optimistic owner or not, on his budget he had to be a realist.
    He paused and looked away from me then down at the plate he was washing. His answer was sad, “Just me, sir.”
    I didn't feel bad for cracking his optimism; what he told me was good. “What's your name, pal?”
    “I am Yousif, sir.”
    “Yousif, I think I'm going to get someone else to come down and sample some of your wonderful gyros,” I said as I powered up Johnny's phone.
    Yousif's optimism seemed to return; he spasmed then smiled. “Very good, sir,” he said.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    “Meet me on the mountain in twenty minutes.”
    “You said tomorrow.”
    “And you said your schedule was busy. You want to see me, get up to the Mandarin on Upper James. Wait outside the doors with your phone on. I'll call you when I get there.”
    Paolo started to reply, but it was no use. I closed the phone and powered it down. I looked out the grey windows at the Mandarin restaurant twenty-five metres across the parking lot. It was a Chinese buffet juggernaut that filled up nightly and probably managed to have a chokehold on Yousif's business. The old owner probably took his lumps from the buffet place and sold the failing business to a naïve person who thought there were many people out there who would choose straight Mediterranean cuisine over a buffet that covered each continent. Yousif was wrong, and he probably had many nights alone in his money pit to mull over his mistake. From where I sat in the empty dining room, I could watch Paolo arrive and decide whether or not I actually wanted to meet him. I ordered a lentil soup and another water, and watched the crowds of hungry families pass me by on their way to the Mandarin.
    It took longer than twenty minutes for Paolo to show up; it was more like thirty. He walked briskly up to the entrance and stood there scanning the parking lot and the inside of the restaurant through the glass. He wore black leather loafers — the kind that had tassels instead of laces. His pleated grey slacks hung at the appropriate length over the shoes, and his black golf shirt was tucked into his pants. From my vantage point I couldn't see a little Polo emblem, but I bet it was there. He wore no hat, allowing me to see that it was him from any part of the parking lot. His hair was a little bit thinner and a bit more grey. The only real difference was his posture; his shoulders were up as though tension had wound them tight. As he turned to scan the crowds of people entering and