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ding

The kitchen bell rang, signalling to Harry that an order was ready to be taken to the table.

Harry was running the front of DD’s today. A Tuesday. Supposedly a slow day. It wasn’t. Tee Tee had gone out of town — “an urgent matter of the utmost importance,” she had insisted — and had asked Harry to run the front for the morning until she got back. And now here he was.

Grabbing two plates of Buben’s finest, Harry hurried around the bar to deliver them to a table by the window, where a man named Yard was sitting. Yard was the owner of Yard & Son Dirt Merchants and had come in for breakfast. He’d ordered for himself and his son — who, as usual, was nowhere to be seen.

Back at the breakfast bar, Harry grabbed the coffee pot and walked its length, offering refills. There was a full cast of characters in today.

Businessman. Took the refill silently, though gave Harry a side-eye.

Cop. Snickered at Harry’s “downfall” to waiter. Harry admitted to himself that he must look pretty funny in his normal daily attire — fedora and all — now accented with a dirty apron.

Harry Bowell, M.D. The gastroenterologist. Not to be confused with Harry Bowels, P.I. — though he was, constantly.

“Another call from a person named Mary,” Harry told Harry. “She says she hasn’t shat for two weeks. She’s concerned she lost a butt plug.”

Harry passed Harry the note he had kept.

“Thanks, Harry,” Harry said.

Getting to the end of the bar, Harry reached the seemingly permanent fixture — the obese man who might be dead. Harry filled a cup and pushed it at arm’s length in front of him. The man made no obvious attempt to take it, or even move.

ding

Another order. Harry delivered it, then began cleaning a table that had just emptied. No tip. Just a note that read, “Nice hat, loser.”

Still, the coffee was free, and the insults were just part of the ambience.