“What can I get you, sir?”
“Eh?”
The waitress was back, smile as dazzling as ever. He hadn’t seen her sneak up on him. That wasn’t good. He was losing his edge.
Focus. Dammit, Mick.
He reached a thumb and forefinger under his shades to rub his own tired eyes. He needed to crash. He wasn’t sure he could even make it back to his own wee flat before his broken brain came trickling out his ears onto the puke-coloured shirt. He’d have to get a room upstairs in the flea-pit attached to the restaurant.
But not yet. He had business to take care of first.
“Sir?”
She was still there. He’d forgotten about her. He could see her name badge out the corner of his eye. Tana. Unusual. He liked it.
“Ah’m fine, love. Maybe a glass of water, if ye can, yeah? That’ll be great.”
He popped two pills from the plastic bottle he’d brought from the hospital. Swallowed them dry. Then two different coloured pills from his own stash, reaching into the plastic bank-bag in his pocket.
That should help. Stop the shaking. He had to keep it together, just a little while longer. He’d been away too long. People were talking. He had to show them that he was back. That he was still in control. By reminding them that he was completely out of control.
“Aye, that’s just grand. Ta, love. And the bill, yeah?”
He thought for a moment.
“Oh, and, eh, tell ye what, love. Bring me the bill for that old duck over there, will ye?” He showed her his blackened teeth. “Call it me good deed for the day.”
Mick chuckled as he reached inside his jacket to peel notes from the fat wad he’d taken from his flat. It might be the old bird’s last latte. Call it a last meal, if ye will. He could afford to be generous. He was about to make a statement and remind everyone who ran these streets.
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