by Carl Tait
Anoush had learned to judge customers by the way they entered the restaurant. Good-natured people pushed through the beaded curtain with wonder and an expectant smile. The man now entering Zabol’s was the opposite sort, a customer who spread the beads abruptly and almost violently, as if they were an irritant. The man’s gabardine suit and lustrous shoes might speak of culture and civility, but Anoush already knew better.
Behind the man was an attractive young woman wearing an electric blue dress. She glided through the beads, smiling faintly as they caressed her arms. Anoush nodded with approval.
“Welcome,” he said. “Table for two?”
The peak dining hour was over and many tables stood vacant. The man surveyed the room and pointed to a prime location away from the door. “May we sit there?” he asked.
The voice was quiet and refined. Anoush had expected as much.
“Of course, sir.” He pulled out a chair for the woman, who gave a nod of thanks. He gave each of his customers a plastic-covered menu and went to get a pitcher of water. When he returned, the couple was discussing the food.
“I’m having the barreh kebab,” said the man. “I highly recommend it.”
“The menu says that’s lamb. I don’t like lamb. I’ll have the chicken kebab instead.”
There was a moment of silence.
“The lamb is quite delicious.”
“Maybe if you like lamb. I don’t.”
The man’s face was calm but icy as he looked up at Anoush. “All right. I’ll have the barreh kebab and she will have the chicken. We’ll also have some dolmeh to start. And two glasses of sour cherry juice.”
“Just one glass of cherry juice, please,” said the woman.
The waiter nodded and left the table before the man could argue.
The dolmeh arrived quickly. The woman stared at the dish in surprise and puzzlement.
“Stuffed grape leaves,” Anoush explained. “They’re delicious.” He hoped he didn’t sound too much like the woman’s companion.
The couple ate without speaking. To the waiter’s pleased relief, the woman appeared to enjoy the dolmeh.
Anoush went to the kitchen and returned with two oval plates bearing kebabs atop steaming mounds of rice. A roasted tomato on each dish completed the classic presentation. The waiter set down the plates in front of his customers, taking care to ensure the woman received the chicken.
“Thank you,” the woman said, as the man ignored Anoush and picked up his fork.
The couple began their entrées in silence. After a few bites, the woman spoke. Anoush had not intended to eavesdrop, but the restaurant was small and quiet.
“I wanted to ask you something,” the woman said. “I don’t mean anything by it.”
The man looked at her with bored politeness.
“I had a text message from him this morning,” she continued. “But now it’s gone.”
Her companion swallowed and blotted his lips.
“How strange. Maybe he retracted it.”
“I don’t think you can do that.”
The man shrugged. “You could be right.”
“Did you delete the message?” the woman asked.
A quiet, dismissive laugh. “No, of course not. I would never do that.”
“But it’s gone.”
The man took a sip of cherry juice. “I don’t even know your password.”
“My password is easy to guess.”
“Maybe you deleted the text by mistake,” the man said. “It happens.”
“I didn’t delete it.” The woman took a large bite of her chicken kebab and chewed with force.
“You might be able to get it back,” said the man. “I think they save all your texts.”
The woman swallowed and tipped her head.
“Really? I hadn’t heard that.”
“We can look on YouTube. I’m interested to find out.”
They returned to eating in silence. Anoush refilled their water glasses.
The woman made an offering to her companion. “Would you like a piece of my chicken?”
“I’ll eat it if you try my lamb.”
Silence. More silence. Anoush grew uncomfortable even as an outsider.
The man gave a studied chuckle. “I’ll make you a bet.”
“I don’t bet,” said the woman.
“Well, let’s call it a game then.”
“I don’t like games.”
“I bet he’ll text you again while we’re at the show.”
“Why are you still talking about that?” the woman asked. “I’d almost forgotten about it.”
“No, really. I’m sure he will. You said he texted you this morning.”
“I don’t think he’ll text me again tonight.”
“And then we could google how to recover his earlier text.”
The woman chased her last few grains of rice with her fork. “We don’t have to do that.”
“I’m just interested. Waiter?”
Anoush positioned a neutral expression on his face and went to the table.
“We’ll take the check,” said the man.
“The chicken was delicious,” the woman commented. She tried to smile.
The couple paid the bill and departed, leaving the spot-on average tip the waiter had expected.
The next day, Anoush picked up the Daily News and scanned the front page. Under the blaring headline “Murder Rattles Gramercy Park” was a photo of a woman.
Her dress was electric blue.
Carl Tait is a software engineer, classical pianist, and writer. His work has appeared in After Dinner Conversation (Pushcart Prize nominee), Mystery Magazine (cover story), the Eunoia Review, the Literary Hatchet, the Saturday Evening Post, and others. He also has a story in Close to Midnight, a horror anthology from Flame Tree Press. Carl grew up in Atlanta and currently lives in New York City with his wife and twin daughters. For more information, visit carltait.com.
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