Free Screwed by Eoin Colfer Page A

shaking and I hide them under the table when the waitress comes over with the menu. Sorry, not waitress. Server. The server is maybe ten years younger than me, so just about eligible for the fantasy league, with an open face and eyes that are bright with good diet or speed.
    “No need for a menu,” I say. “I’ve been before. Bring me a pot of coffee and the french toast, with everything.”
    The server’s smile is so wide that she makes me believe in it. If there’s one thing Americans know how to do, it’s how to make people feel welcome.
    Shit, I feel like a regular and I haven’t been up the steps in years.
    “French toast,” she says, writing the order on her pad. “Some comfort food, huh?”
    “Yep,” I say. “I need a little comfort right now.”
    I used to treat myself to breakfast here when I’d had a rough night on the doors. A lot of joints have the Best Breakfast in New York City sign in the window, but Norma’s might actually deserve it.
    I read the server’s name tag. “Nothing like french toast to make a guy feel comforted, Mary. You Irish, Mary?”
    Mary is thrilled with the question. “Oh my God. I am like, totally Irish. My great-granddad came over from County Wales.”
    I am glad to have an excuse to smile. “That’s great. I got cousins in County Wales.”
    Mary thrusts out her chest with some determination. “Well, I hope you’re hungry, cousin. ’Cause this toast will be big enough to feed an army.”
    I like Mary already and if I hadn’t been recently electrocuted and abducted I might even put some effort here. But I have bearer bonds in my pocket and the truth is Mary is probably working on her tip and even if she isn’t I feel a crazy loyalty to Sofia like a bipolar angel sitting on my shoulder.
    Mary strides off to the kitchen and I lay my hands on the table, daring them to shake.
    Deal with it, assholes, I beam at them. You got stuff to do.
    Norma’s is a lot swishier than my usual diner but sometimes you gotta tolerate a little class in the name of toast. Even at close to three in the afternoon, the high-ceilinged room is half full of businessmen loosening their ties and buttons, and out of towners here for the famous pancakes. I bet a girl like Mary could pull in a couple of hundred extra a day in tips.
    Maybe I’ll offer her a job.
    While I’m contemplating my server’s totally over-the-top reaction to my imagined job offer, in the real world Mary has plenty of time to grab a pot of coffee and swing back around to my table.
    “Hey, cousin,” she begins, then freezes, staring at my hands. No, not my hands, something between my hands. I look down and see that I have put one of the Glocks on the table. I don’t remember doing it. Why would I do that in a restaurant? I feel a cold sweat push through the pores of my neck.
    Mary is not fazed for long. This gal works in NYC.
    “Oh, I get it. Irish, right? So, you’re a cop?”
    It’s nice when people invent your excuses for you. I wish it happened more often.
    “This is a cop’s gun,” I say truthfully, sweeping the Glock off the table. “I was just making sure the safety was on. I wouldn’t want to shoot any of your customers.”
    Mary leans in close and pours me a cup of java that I know is top class just from the aroma.
    “See those two guys in the corner with their eyes on stalks every time my ass swishes by?” she whispers.
    “Yeah, I see ’em,” I reply.
    Of course now that she has said the words ass and swishes, my eyes are going to be on stalks too.
    “You can shoot those two if you like, Officer,” Mary says, and I feel her breathing in my ear, which almost cancels out the memory of Fortz doing the same thing.
    The toast is everything I remember and twice as big, buried under fruit, cream and syrup, made all the sweeter by the discreet hip bump Mary throws me on the way past. It’s like tossing a bone to a drowning dog. I appreciate the gesture, but it doesn’t really improve my situation.
    I go