Free Last Diner Standing by Terri L. Austin Page B

“It’s for Dillon.”
    I stared at the giant, fuzzy, yellow chicken suit in relief.
    “Who’s Dillon?” Roxy asked, smacking her gum.
    “The busboy.” Ma pulled the suit out of the cabinet. “I’d wear it myself, but I’d never be able to get in and out of that thing. Not with my hip. What do you think?”
    “I’m sure he’ll love it.” Poor New Kid. He’d sat around the last two days doing less than nothing, now it was time to pay the piper. Karma was a bitch.
    Roxy and I went to work, and by six we had customers waiting. At seven, Dillon stepped out of the office, his face visible through the chicken beak.
    The customers stopped eating to gawk as he made his way to the front door. He stopped next to my table. “I’m not getting paid enough for this, man. Being a chicken sucks.”
    I patted his wing. “Better you than me.” Then I whipped out my phone and snapped a picture of him. If he didn’t start pulling his weight around here, I’d use it for blackmailing purposes.
    We worked steadily until nine when a regular stepped through the door, a newspaper tucked under his arm. “Hey, what’s that chicken doing outside?”
    I glanced out the window. Ma had given Dillon a sign to hold up to help spread the word about our chicken specials. But New Kid had tossed it aside and was standing on the sidewalk, playing with his phone.
    Roxy joined me. “That new kid’s a dick.”
    As the morning progressed, I occasionally checked on him. I’d never seen a chicken flip the bird before. He gave everyone who drove by the one-fingered salute. With both hands. How was this helping business again?

    That afternoon, lunch really started to pick up. By noon, people were actually waiting outside the diner for tables. By one, we still had customers, and by three, we had to turn people away.
    “See, just like I told you,” Ma crowed. Or should I say clucked. “Chicken. That’s the answer. And tomorrow’s special: chicken pot pie. If business stays this brisk, we may have to hire another cook. Maybe we’ll expand the diner. I don’t see why we can’t stay open for dinner.”
    Dillon marched himself inside. He had to with those floppy chicken feet. “Look at me. Some idiot poured beer all over my legs.”
    Roxy stared at his drumsticks. “You better hope it was beer. Could have been pee.”
    Before I could comment, my phone vibrated. I tugged it from my jeans pocket. Sullivan.
    “Hey,” I said. I left Roxy and Dillon by the front door and slipped behind the counter. “What’s up?”
    “Just wanted you to know your friend is out of jail. Henry took her home.”
    “Thanks. So, how are we going to do this? Do I pay you weekly or something?”
    Pause. I wiped down the counter with my free hand and waited him out.
    “We can negotiate later.”
    Now I paused. “I’m not having sex with you.”
    “I’m going to enjoy proving you wrong.” Then he hung up.
    Holy freaking cow. He was joking. He had to be. Sex with Sullivan would be…amazing. But it wasn’t happening. My legs were firmly closed where that man was concerned. He was a criminal. I had to keep reminding myself that it mattered.
    As I stared down at my phone, it vibrated again. This time Janelle.
    “Rose, I don’t know what you did, girl, but I owe you big time.”
    “No, we’re good. I’m just glad you’re out. How’s Damon?”
    “Better. His fever broke. I’m going to pay you back, I swear. I know you borrowed money from Sullivan. And that Henry’s a bad mofo. Scared the bejeezus out of me.”
    Henry was scary, but I didn’t want to her to worry about all this now. She had enough on her plate and if we didn’t find out who put Asshat in a coma, she was going back to jail for a long time.
    “We can talk about it later. In the meantime, just enjoy being home with your kids.”
    She sniffed. “I’m going to help you find who did this to Asshat. He wasn’t much of a husband. Or man. Or a lover. But he is the kids’ dad and he didn’t