Mitch’s mouth gaped open, not knowing what to say.
“You get two sides with that fat ass bird, what’chu want?”
Mitch glanced back down at the menu. “The … black eyed peas and the corn … please.”
“Comin’ right up,” she said, turning on her heel.
Trina waited until the waitress was out of earshot. “That’s a lot of food. You’re gonna be eating leftovers out of the refrigerator for a fucking week, you know that?”
“Sorry, babe … I got flustered. I thought she was disrespecting me.”
Trina didn’t get that impression. “Huh? I thought she was nice.”
Mitch didn’t respond. He continued sipping his drink, looking around the room.
Half an hour later, the waitress returned with their food. She delicately placed Trina’s salmon dish in front her, but nearly threw Mitch’s chicken and sides at him. She smiled at Trina before walking back towards the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, honey, the online reviews I read suggested this was a great place, but if I’d known we’d get this type of service…”
“What are you talking about?” Trina interrupted. “You’re the one who wanted to come here. Aren’t you enjoying yourself?” She took a sip of her long island iced tea. “This isn’t at all what I expected. The waitstaff are friendly, the music is great, and I can’t wait to taste this salmon.” Her knife sliced into the pink flesh, which her fork brought to her mouth. She tasted cajun spices. “That’s delicious.”
Mitch stared at the roasted ass-end of half a dead chicken. He’d lost his appetite.
“Come on, honey, aren’t you going to eat?” she asked.
“Yeah … sure.” Mitch picked up his cutlery.
They ate and drank in silence for a while. The room moved around them. Trina ordered two glasses of white wine for them to enjoy alongside their meal. The waitress delivered Trina’s glass with a smile, but half of Mitch’s wine spilled onto the table as the waitress slammed it down.
Trina finished her salmon, placing her knife and fork on her empty plate, fully satisfied. On the other side of the table, Mitch was determined to eat as much of his meal as he could. Fuck that waitress and her shitty attitude.
Out in the kitchen, staff were placing bets on whether the lame-ass whiteboi would finish or not.
Trina watched her husband with alarm as he shovelled food relentlessly into his mouth. He wasn’t enjoying his meal, but he was determined to finish it. The spectacle was disgusting, and in this moment, she was embarrassed for him. He eventually tapped out before puking, requesting a takeout container to carry the rest home.
“You OK?” Trina asked.
Mitch burped in response. He breathed deeply before nodding.
“Should we get the check?”
“Yeah.” Mitch’s hand dived into his pocket, expecting to find his wallet, but it grabbed air. “Fuck,” he whispered. “My wallet isn’t here. It’s gone.”
Given how Trina joked they might get mugged earlier this afternoon, she thought he was joking. “Yeah, yeah. Funny guy.”
All the colour drained out of Mitch’s face. “I’m not kidding … Trina, I’m serious, it’s … it’s not here.” He checked all of his pockets, but to no avail. Something was terribly wrong. As panic flooded his system, he raced to the bathroom and violently regurgitated his semi-digested meal. He wanted to tidy himself up before returning to the table, but he knew there was no time. He wanted to get home ASAP. He needed get on the phone to cancel his cards.
He staggered back to the table. She could tell he’d been sick. It was obvious.
“I hate to ask, but … can you pay for dinner tonight?” He winced as he said the words.
Trina coughed. Fuck, he looked terrible. “I didn’t bring my purse with me, Mitch. Tonight was your idea, and I thought you had everything under control. My cards are all at home. I didn’t even bring my phone.”
Mitch didn’t know how to navigate the situation. The walls were closing in and his head was pounding like a jackhammer. Fuck the check. If Trina didn’t have her cards, how the hell were they going to get back home? His forehead was caked in sweat. He thought about grabbing his wife’s hand and running for it, but in his current state, he knew he wouldn’t get very far before collapsing. Besides, they didn’t know the neighbourhood, and Trina was wearing heels.
He waved the waitress over. “Miss, umm … I …”
“Don’t call me miss,” she interrupted.
He gulped nervously. “Sorry … uhh … but … I need to explain … I seem to have lost my wallet.”
The waitress sighed before exploding. “Now you listen to me, you piece o’ shit. You wealthy fuckin’ small dick whitebois think you can come up here to Harlem, eat our food, foul our bathrooms and then pretend you can’t pay. Like, seriously, fuck that shit.” The room had fallen quiet, all conversation had ceased. “We’ seen your kind before. And truss me, bitch, you gon’ pay.” She waved her arm, and within seconds, two muscled, powerful, gym-fit African-American gentlemen towered over Mitch.
Shakedown.
Mitch looked up. “What seems to be the problem?” he stammered. There was genuine fear in his eyes.
“You enjoy your meal, whiteboi?”
“I’ve lost my wallet … the meal was … please don’t hurt me.”
The gentlemen shared a knowing glance and a wry smile.
“We ain’t gonna hurt you, whiteboi, we just gon’ ask you some questions. Come out back.”
Mitch wobbled on his feet as he stood to follow them. Trina wasn’t sure what to do. She was about to stand to follow her husband, but the waitress brought another cocktail over to her. “On the house, ma’am,” she smiled. “Wait here. They won’t be long.”
*
Mitch walked into the back room.
“I’m Tyrone, and this here’s my boy Leroy.” Neither of them extended a hand in friendship. “Take a seat.”
Mitch sat on an uncomfortable plastic chair in the middle of the room while Tyrone and Leroy stood over him, hovering menacingly. The air felt stale. A single bulb burned white brightness.
Mitch began to blubber. “I’m so sorry … I … my wife and I have been looking forward to visiting your diner for a few weeks now, and I suppose it’s obvious that things haven’t turned out well for us tonight … the thing is, I seem to have lost my wallet, we caught a cab up from the upper east side, and …”
The two thugs exchanged knowing glances. Upper east side? Whiteboi’s probably got some cash.
“… and I know I had it with me when we got out of the cab because I paid the driver, but I swear, I’ve lost it, or maybe I dropped it, I don’t know, but I’m worried that someone’s maxing out my cards as we speak, and I need to make some calls.”
“You ain’t suggestin’ someone in our fine neighbourhood lifted it, are you?” asked Leroy. Their voices were deep and rumbly, oozing with masculinity.
“You mean … like, am I saying someone stole it from me?”
Tyrone sneered. “Yeah, that’s what my boy meant. You callin’ someone a thief?”
Mitch tried to remember. “We got out of the cab a few blocks away and we walked the rest of the way here, you know, just to see a piece of Harlem.”
“Good for you. Welcome to our neighbourhood. But it doesn’t solve our problem with tonight’s check, does it?” probed Leroy.
Mitch stammered, not knowing what to say or do.
Tyrone reached into his back pocket. “Your name Mitchell?”