Haunt

Barry Angel Tracks the IHOP Conclave - Part 1 of 2

Prelude - Three Years Ago October 11, 2019

To the well-worn waitress, Barry said, "Coffee and toast is all I need, thanks. Two more people are joining me, but I don't know them. So I can't order for them. We're strangers. I would like wheat toast, no butter, and grape jelly."

"You got it. I'll just leave the pot on the table, honey," the server said in a long-time smoker's voice. Barry's stiff formality didn't perturb the waitress.

"Thank you."

The Montreal Drive IHOP was four miles away from Seven Wonders Park. The restaurant was festooned for the 2019 Halloween season. Paper decorations lined the windows, fake cobwebs stretched around the booths, and there were special desserts themed on the recent Addams Family movie.

Barry Angel was among the few people here at early dawn, before breakfast rush, before the sun began to rise. In his mid-forties, he never looked entirely comfortable in his body, which was tall, gangly, with arms and legs constantly fretting and jittering. He combed his thin brown hair neatly, but it had not been cut properly in months. Every day, he wore white buttondown shirts and grey trousers with a pair of long underwear beneath because he couldn't stand the feel of seams on his skin. His eyes stared hard at the world, yet he could barely make eye contact with others. That he was a high-functioning autistic, he knew, but only found out recently. Three doctors and two specialists had told him so. He did well for himself, working as a private investigator, because no one ever suspected him of anything and because he could adhere to his rigid demands.

Barry sat at a booth by the window and watched the parking lot.

On the table in front of him was a small yellow pad of paper spiral-bound at the top. His fingers tapped at the pad constantly.

His toast arrived with the coughing waitress. "There you are, hon. Two packs of grape jelly enough?" She set down two little purple plastic containers. Barry smiled at their neat precision. He liked food that came in little boxes.

He recalled her nametag. "Thank you, Georgia. I'm just waiting for my clients now."

"You're a doll. Anything else?"

"I need a pen. My pen is out of ink. I didn't bring an extra."

"That I can do for you! I have like a million of them. They're everywhere. My servers are idiots. They always lose my pens, so I bought a billion of them on Amazon last time I ordered cat toys."

"Thank you. I like to take notes to stay organized." A hundred thoughts reached Barry's mind, and he restrained himself from launching into each one. "Though I can remember things well without them."

"Oh hey!" Georgia turned over her meaty hands to show that she did not have a pad of paper to take customers' orders. "I can remember orders for a table of eight without jotting anything down. We're two peas in a pod. Now, I'll be back around in a few minutes to check on you."

"Okay."

As soon as sunlight touched the pavement, Barry's clients pulled up in a small white four-door—Professor Thompson and Professor Purnell, who taught business and marketing at St. Hermione's Junior College.

Barry analyzed them as they exited their car. It's early Saturday morning. I've already seated myself in the booth they described online. I'm not the first PI they tried. The job was too vague for most, but I found it fascinating. Rambunctious, energetic groups of kids visit the IHOP consistently on weekends at around one to three in the morning. Clients are concerned that these loud, suspicious, and somewhat competitive groups gather after they eat and then get up to "no good." Clients use words like "witchcraft" and "Satanism" yet have no evidence to back up their claims. They said they would pay for my breakfast.