Results 1 to 9 of 9

Thread: Death of a Waitress

  1. #1
    Registered User Steven Hunley's Avatar
    Join Date
    Sep 2009
    Location
    San Diego Calif.
    Posts
    1,756
    Blog Entries
    15

    Death of a Waitress

    “Where’s Molly?” asked Pam.

    “She’ll be back in a few; she’s upstairs talking to the boss.”

    On the first steps the music throbbed through the walls at Molly and lyrics were easily discerned.

    ‘Everybody goes out dancin,’
    Gonna dance the whole night long…’


    Half way up she couldn’t hear the words, they became a mumble. By the time she’d reached the landing near his office, the music was just a whisper, the walls so corrupted, so fat and soft, they absorbed all the good vibrations. You could fire off a gun and nobody would notice. She knocked twice, and went in. Mr. Neb was hunched over his desk doing the books. He wore a drooping mustache and his hair smoothed-back, brilliant, dark, and glossy. His face was designed with a hundred different curves and angles, tortured into a pattern of exquisite evil. Neb’s nails were lacquered and trimmed, except the one on his baby finger which was unusually long.

    “I see you’ve found the time to come up,” he said, but kept his eyes on the paper.

    “It’s pretty busy down there, I couldn’t get away.”

    He put down his pen and looking up, took her measure using his eyes as a tape. He resembled a hungry varmint regarding a piece of premium stake. He’d always had the hots for her, but her icy remarks usually cooled his steam.

    “You know, I’ve been thinking about you, Baby.”

    “I wish you wouldn’t, Mr. Neb.”

    “What?”

    “Think about me.”

    “What’s the matter?”

    “I’m liable to catch something, hanging around in your mind.”

    “There’s a rumor that you’re making money on the side,” he sneered. “And I noticed you haven’t had to hit me up for an advance on your check for a couple of weeks. You wouldn’t be taking the men customers home for piece-work now, would you?”

    “No, not on your life. Say, what is this anyway, the Inquisition?”

    Mr. Neb’s faced flushed.

    “O.K. You don’t have to get nasty. Remember who’s boss.”

    “See you remember too.”

    Mr. Neb was unfazed.

    “You need any money this week? I’ll be gone the whole weekend. You could pay me back later in Deutschmarks, Francs, Pounds Sterling, Drachmas or Kunas.”

    “Sure, Mr. Neb, or in pounds of flesh. That’s what you offered last time. I’m fine. My great aunt in Cincinnati died and sent me her diamond ring, express mail. I’m fixed.”

    Neb decided to take a different tack, and motioned Molly to the balcony overlooking the harbor.

    “Take a look. It’s it lovely?”

    Molly surveyed the harbor. White caps topped the growing waves menacing the port. Battalions of clouds streaked with lighting were assembling on the horizon, preparing to reinforce the charging wind, ready to assault the defensive walls of the ancient city. The clouds were bold and full of fire, like young SS officers with silver lightning bolts on their collars, eager to make a name for themselves, willing to write it in blood. Molly could hear the clouds rumbling from her perch, in the same way a canary is aware of a hungry cat whose belly growls with anticipation.

    “You know,” Neb took a fatherly tone, and said something every dirty old man always says when they hold a position of power, “This could all be yours. I mean, I want to make life easy for you, if you’d only cooperate.”

    ‘Oh, sh*t, here it comes again. The old give and take. He offers me one thing, and if I pass it up, he threatens to take another.’

    “No thanks. If I want a view similar to this, I can always start going to church and climb the bell tower. Their view doesn’t have so many strings attached.”

    “Not ones you can see anyway,” he spat back.

    A knock came from the door, it was the grandmaster.

    “Mister Neb, I must speak with you, and Molly is needed downstairs right away.”

    “We’ll finish this later,” said Neb, ushered her out and closed the door and locked it. Still with his face to the door he whispered something almost unintelligible.

    “The pound of flesh which I demand of her
    Is dearly bought. ‘Tis mine, and I will have it.”


    Then he turned and got back to business less personal.

    “Now what have you got for me? I’m busy.”

    ‘Well,” said Grandmaster, “The same old thing. Money. And something even more valuable.”

    “What’s that?”

    “Information.”

    There were rumors Grandmaster had been a boy genius, then a Russian Grandmaster at chess. Most highly prestigious of fellows. Lived outside Petrograd on an estate in the country with his mother and aunt. Government paid for it all. Ate what he wanted, did what he chose.

    Fame brought money, and in a typical youthful capitalist way he wasted it, over-steeping himself in wine, women, and song. After that he was a gambling addict who thought he knew all the percentages and formulas, and positive he could correlate the rules of occurrences that determined the fall of a pair of dice, the spin of a wheel, each card in a hand of cards, and predict every outcome. He indulged in risky behavior, and unprotected sex. Unfortunately, his genius bloomed early in life, and now his intellect had withered. Never again would he experience the shining moments of his younger years, or savor its tender triumphs. While living in a dingy studio next to the Babylon, the government still paid his rent, but from a different end of its benevolent spectrum, ten Kunas a week, only one step away from homeless.

    To console himself he’d bedded down with opium. Under its calming influence, his flame of youth had dwindled to passive dying embers, hardly enough to keep the man warm. At one time he was able to look ahead, predict the future, and plan his future moves. But now he spent more time falling behind, lost in reverie. Addicted to his poisoned dreams, unwilling to escape, he preferred to clutch at fantasy with crippled hands that had lost their grip on reality. Sometimes geniuses are so focused on genius they lose sight of their limitations.

    “I can wait for news. In the meantime we’ve received a new shipment. One from Chile and one from Bangkok. Let’s get down to business.”

    Mr. Neb turned towards a portrait of the Madonna. Her eyes did not show, just their lashes, and she wore a blue cowl over her hair. She possessed a sad expression, eyes downcast, face tender and delicate, patient, the face of a sainted mother who was more than any saint.

    “It’s a wonderful painting of Mary.”
    .
    “Yes, I agree, it’s quite valuable.”

    Mr. Neb stood within arm’s length of the frame and after making the sign of the cross, he reached out and opened the hinged frame like a swinging door in a saloon. Inside was a safe, and with a twist left and right it was open. There were bags stacked against either wall. He took one from each side, avoiding their protection in the middle, and placed them on Grandmaster’s portion of his desk. At the same time Grandmaster plopped down a stack of Croatian Kunas and another of American greenbacks.

    “One white, one black, isn’t it?”

    “Yes, that will do.”

    “For now.”

    “Yes…for now, always for now.”

    Mr. Neb picked up the stacks of paper and put them in the safe.

    “You know, the white is the very latest product. Our associates in Chile.”

    “It doesn’t bother you that they’re all ex-Nazis?”

    “Not in the least. Besides, they owe me a few favors. I was one of the agents who worked for Odessa, in charge of the local ratlines. I find it best to no longer think of them as war criminals, but rather as struggling chemists in need of a market. One should always keep labels up to date.”

    “That’s a good way to look at it. I can never fault Germans when it comes to their knowledge of chemistry. You know it’s extremely busy down stairs tonight. I’m simply dragging. I have much work to do for you. Can I do a small sample here? It would perk up your best pair of eyes and ears immensely.”

    “Only a little, you know how you get.”

    “I’ll control myself. I know what I’m doing.”

    “Got your knife?”

    “Naturally.”

    Grandmaster took out a pearl-handled switchblade he got in Damascus. Its bright metal gleamed in the light. Both sides of its polished blade were nasty sharp and cut both ways.

    He held the glassine bag firmly to the table like a pig and poked it with the tip. Releasing the bag with one hand he maneuvered the blade under his nose. Taking his free hand he placed the tip of his middle finger over one of his nostrils. With the other he made a quick sniff. The substance disappeared.

    “Nice, no sting.”

    “Yes, I believe it is extremely clean. These German’s know what they’re doing.”

    Grandmaster reached for the bag to put it away. Neb caught him, and pinning his wrist to the desk with one hand, with his free hand he scooped deftly with his long finger nail and imitated the grandmaster’s action. The strength in his hands was insane.

    “You don’t mind? I thought you’d never offer, "Neb said and loosened his grip.

    “Why should I? You’re the boss.”

    “Yes,” said Neb, and looking up at a cloud that wasn’t there, decided, “It seems that I am.”

    He put the tip of nail in his mouth and tasted it. To get down to business, grown men think of coffee, youngsters think of Coke or Pepsi fizzing its way down your throat. But to Neb’s way of thinking,

    ‘This is the only pause that truly refreshes.’

    His eyes were dilating already, as if they were hungry. “Well, what about the information? What have you?”

    “Someone has a hand in your till, a trusted employee.”

    “Is that so?”

    “It’s costing you quite a pile. I’ve been keeping watch, it’s been happening almost on a daily basis.”

    At the same time the substance was snapping the synapses in Neb’s brain, the same thing was happening to Grandmaster, and he was getting bolder with each passing second. He was eager to dish out information, but to feed Neb by the teaspoon full, rather than overload his plate.

    “I say almost because the only days it doesn’t seem to happen, are on Molly’s days off. I have the figures right here.”
    He patted his pocket.

    “The b*tch! In knew she was up to something.”

    Neb started to pace. With each step he grew more disturbed.

    “I give her a job and help her out and what do I get? Nothing but disrespect!”

    He stopped in front of the balcony and looked out. The sky was dark and brooding. Thunder crashed in the distance and rain began to fall. Soon it was pouring down with a vengeance, and the thunder clouds were so near they were almost on top of them. The interval between thunder and lightning was so close you couldn’t count the distance between them in seconds.

    Grandmaster saw beads of perspiration begin the form on Neb’s forehead, and noted his chest heaving, and decided to egg him on.

    “Of course I suspect some other employees have a hand in it too, but not half as much as Molly. The problem is, they’re following her example.”

    Neb started seething, his hands began to shake.

    “She never cooperates! Never gives me what I want, much less shows respect. Now the American is stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds her! Well, we’ll see. I know how to deal with her kind.”

    Neb returned to the safe. He took out a Walther PPK and then gathered up the bags of powder off the desk, one black, one white, packed all three in a shaving kit bag he located in the desk drawer, then shoved it towards Grandmaster.

    “Take care of her for me,” he suggested.

    “You mean?”

    “I mean… take care of the b*tch.”

    He patted the shaving kit affectionately, and as he did his voice took on a tone of fatherly advice.

    “Show initiative. Demonstrate ambition. I know you can do it. I have faith in your abilities. Once a grandmaster always a grandmaster. We both believe that, don’t we?”

    “I’ve always believed in good works buying redemption. Your wish, kind sir, is my command.”

    When Grandmaster was outside the office door he hesitated to go down the stairs. He wanted to take a moment to savor his triumph of planning, and marvel at its execution. Now each and every penny he stole from his master was accounted for, and blamed on his favorite scapegoat, the innocent American. He wasn’t just at the top of the stairway; he was standing like a colossus on the pinnacle of the criminal world.

    Copywrite 2013 Steven Hunley
    Last edited by Steven Hunley; 03-09-2013 at 01:49 PM.

  2. #2
    Registered User Steven Hunley's Avatar
    Join Date
    Sep 2009
    Location
    San Diego Calif.
    Posts
    1,756
    Blog Entries
    15
    Seven years ago and nobody says notin'.

    NOTIN'!

    What is this, a website or Organized Crime? I'm make these two tasty geezers the most evil I ever created and nobody says Notin'. What about the waitress? What about her, does she not deserve comment and therefore respect? She's one of my strongest female characters! This is a large confrontation here! This is Good vs. Evil!

    Perhaps I'm just ranting here. Maybe I shouldn't have had that second cup of coffee on an empty stomach.

    https://youtu.be/cLTZavs4WAo 30 Days in the Hole Humble Pie
    Last edited by Steven Hunley; 03-07-2020 at 01:38 PM.

  3. #3
    On the road, but not! Danik 2016's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 2016
    Location
    Beyond nowhere
    Posts
    6,558
    Hi, Steve,
    Just read your story, nice girl that Molly, but she hasn´t died yet, you can still save her if you want to.

    "If I want a view similar to this, I can always start going to church and climb the bell tower. Their view doesn’t have so many strings attached.” That´s thumbs up!

    But you ask "Where is Molly"? and I ask "Where are Molly, Polly, Dolly and Sally? And what about Tom, Richard, Bob and Harry?
    Where are the snows and the sunshines of yesterday?

    Just now poor Litnet is going porn. I hope it is just a phase!
    #Stay home as much as you can and stay well

  4. #4
    MANICHAEAN MANICHAEAN's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2009
    Location
    Vietnam, Singapore, Japan, The Middle East, UK, The Philippines & Papua New Guinea.
    Posts
    2,569
    Blog Entries
    1
    Steve, Danik

    I'm in concurrence. Apart from a few regulars, we seem to have had an unremitting diet of crap in certain contributions over the last few months. As both of you have noted, (either on this piece, or previous occasions), one can put in a lot of work: create, refine, muse over, contribute. Then zilch!! Not a murmur of "Liked it," or "Rubbish!!"

    Do you think there is anybody else out there? Is Wolf Larsen a Trump "nom de plume", inarticulate as ever, hidden under a cowl of gilded lead and sent by Lucifer to appeal to the lowest denominators in the human soul?

  5. #5
    On the road, but not! Danik 2016's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 2016
    Location
    Beyond nowhere
    Posts
    6,558
    Thanks for your concurrence, Manichaean.

    I think Mr Larsen simply wants to advertise his stuff. But this is going on so long and on an almost daily basis, that it might be having the opposite effect by driving Users away.
    #Stay home as much as you can and stay well

  6. #6
    MANICHAEAN MANICHAEAN's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2009
    Location
    Vietnam, Singapore, Japan, The Middle East, UK, The Philippines & Papua New Guinea.
    Posts
    2,569
    Blog Entries
    1
    Yes. There was a few serious fights on Lit Net before regarding his "work". He was banned by the Moderators, then came back with the same stuff.

  7. #7
    The Wolf of Larsen WolfLarsen's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2005
    Location
    Creating a new universe
    Posts
    1,007
    Blog Entries
    90
    I stopped posting due to medical problems. I am not aware of any ban. If you don't like someone's material then don't read it. Considering that there is even a warning to help Puritans stay clear. Those who promote censorship do the greatest disservice to literature:
    https://www.thoughtco.com/most-banne...-novels-738741
    "...the ramblings of a narcissistic, self-obsessed, deranged mind."
    My poetry, plays, novels, & other stuff on Amazon:
    http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=ntt_athr...or=Wolf Larsen

  8. #8
    The Wolf of Larsen WolfLarsen's Avatar
    Join Date
    Nov 2005
    Location
    Creating a new universe
    Posts
    1,007
    Blog Entries
    90
    By the way - before certain people started using this thread as a religious tirade against "sin" - that there is actually a very good story at the beginning of this thread. I myself very much like this story, and I will most certainly read it again, when I am sober. I hope people will remember that this is not a religious posting board, but a LITERARY posting board. Thank you! I LOVE literature, religion belongs somewhere else! I like this piece of literature very much!
    "...the ramblings of a narcissistic, self-obsessed, deranged mind."
    My poetry, plays, novels, & other stuff on Amazon:
    http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=ntt_athr...or=Wolf Larsen

  9. #9
    MANICHAEAN MANICHAEAN's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2009
    Location
    Vietnam, Singapore, Japan, The Middle East, UK, The Philippines & Papua New Guinea.
    Posts
    2,569
    Blog Entries
    1
    Barbara tenus sapientes.

Similar Threads

  1. The Waitress
    By dara.cv in forum Personal Poetry
    Replies: 3
    Last Post: 07-27-2009, 01:14 AM
  2. The Stomach of a Waitress
    By wagravity in forum Personal Poetry
    Replies: 0
    Last Post: 03-17-2009, 06:09 AM
  3. Death
    By mosimo in forum Religious Texts
    Replies: 11
    Last Post: 09-07-2008, 03:46 PM
  4. A Little Death
    By mir in forum Personal Poetry
    Replies: 3
    Last Post: 02-01-2008, 11:29 AM
  5. Death-to-life-to-death (Or: Life Circle)
    By jon1jt in forum Personal Poetry
    Replies: 2
    Last Post: 12-11-2005, 05:15 AM

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •