I Greeted My Killer With a Smile

In Tune and In Trouble

The morning was boring. I'd folded some pizza boxes, dealt with a few problem customers, and fried up some wings, but nothing particularly spectacular had occurred. If you had asked me around 1 o'clock to predict what I'd be doing close to 2:30 I would've said, "Fill the soda coolers, if I'm feeling spicy." I love my job, but an astronaut or secret agent I was not.

The afternoon was anything but boring.

The spice started with a dash of customer dishonesty. A woman, in a black dress, told a story that, if true, could be described in no words other than "sad" and "unfortunate." She waltzed in quietly while I was refilling the hand soap in the bathroom. My manager - quite the sap, that one- had dealt with her in my absence.

"I've just travelled in from Virginia, there's been a death in the family. We came in last night and ordered two large pizza's. One of us found a long, dark hair in one of them. We lost our appetite; no one could eat another bite."

I entered the room just as my manager, Miranda, was handing over refund money.

The air was thick. My brain was a bit tricky, my memory selective and receptors highly in tune with the emotions of others. Something was a bit off.

I watch the lady in the black dress as she leaves the restaurant, the bell signaling her departure. I turned to face Miranda and her husband, Carre.

"What was that about?"

"Dandy just got jipped."

And so they told me everything that went down.

"I was the only one working front counter last night, and only one person came to pick up two large plain pizzas. It was a man, Ziegel maybe."

And so we went through the ticket poke, searching for the single ticket that held the order. We found it, the name was indeed Ziegel, just spelled differently. My lips twisted to the side at the battling fragments in my brain, the muscles in my face relaxing once I identified the writing as the delivery driver's. Kurt was always in a hurry, hardly pausing long enough to take down all the necessary details. One missing letter didn't mean much.

"She said she called once but nobody answered. Must've been closed, she said." Miranda spoke.

Carre picked up the phone and the ding of each press of a button was audible. He was most likely tracking down the time of the last phone call.

"Half passed six doesn't sound like closing time to me." Carre was the more sturdy soul. Miranda was sensitive. I was wired at all times, on my own instincts, not on drugs or caffeine or any of the other substances people accused me of being on.

My own mind was intense as it is. I had no need for additional effectors.

I thought facts, observations, feelings. I replayed thoughts like they were my favorite movie.

My eyes came back into focus, bringing me back to earth and alerting me of Carre's tangent.

"Look at this," he tugged at his hair, "does this look long to you?" This was true, and he was frustrated. He was the only individual with dark hair, and it certainly wasn't of considerable length. He was also the only one who went anywhere near unboxed pies.

Yeah, we'd been conned.

"Well, it's not a Saturday without a little chaos, no is it?"