Free This Doesn't Happen in the Movies by Renee Pawlish

noticing me in the darkness.  Meanwhile the waiter tucked the receipt in his white apron pocket, picked up the comic, and headed for the kitchen.  I was vaguely aware of the Lexus pulling out into the street as I dashed around the north corner of the building, looking for a back entrance to the restaurant.  Amanda had passed that waiter a note, and I was going to find out what was on it.
    I found the back entrance that led into the kitchen and stepped through an unlocked screen door.  Even though the outside temperature was dropping, I could feel heat emanating from the hot ovens inside.  I looked around until I saw Amanda’s waiter, leaning his hands against a long metal prep table, waiting for an order of food to be filled.  The comic stuck out of the back pocket of his black slacks.  And no, I was not looking at his ass.
    I made eye contact with him and gestured for him to come over.
    He gave me a quizzical look, but walked over.  “Who are you?” he said with a touch of surprise and a lot of annoyance.
    “Archie Goodman,” I said, flipping open my wallet to give him a nanosecond glimpse of my detective badge.  “I’m a detective with the Denver Police Department and I need a word with you.”  If he asked to scrutinize the badge, I was in trouble.
    “What’s going on?”  Not scared, just irritated.  And not interested in verifying my credentials.
    “Would you come with me, please?”  He hesitated for a second before walking past me, tapping an older man on the shoulder as he passed by.  “I’m taking a quick break,” he said.  The other guy rolled his eyes but said nothing.
    We stepped outside and away from the small square of light that came from the kitchen door.  He reached under his apron and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.  A smoking break was probably a common occurrence, which was why no one stopped us.
    He lit one, blew smoke into the crisp air, and contemplated me.  “What’s this about?”
    “What did Amanda tell you?”
    “Who?” he asked with genuine ignorance.  A gold name tag pinned to his white shirt had “Jack” written on it.
    “Amanda Ghering.  The lady you served.  The one who dined alone.  She just left, and she wrote something to you on the receipt.  What was it?  What did she tell you?”
    “Hey, screw you, man.”  He flicked the cigarette into a puddle of icy water, and tried to step around me.  “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
    I pushed him back against the brick wall, so fast that he exhaled with an “oomph” sound.  For the first time, I saw fear in his eyes.  “Now, you tell me what I want to know, or I’ll haul your ass downtown and we’ll talk there.”  I tapped him emphatically on the chest.  “Your choice, Jack.”  Wouldn’t the Denver Police be surprised when we showed up.
    “Hey, all she did was leave her phone number on it, okay?”  He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.  I grabbed it from him and examined it in the light from the kitchen.  In Amanda’s loopy writing, she had scribbled her name and phone number.  Underneath that, she had written: “call me.”  I turned it over, but there were only the itemized menu items and totals for her meal and drinks.
    “That’s it?” I said with a stern glare.
    “Yeah, that’s it.”
    “Has she ever come in here before?”
    He nodded.  “A couple of other times, a few months ago.  She’s a hot chick, okay.  She’s making her move, I’m making mine, you know?”
    “All you’ve done is flirt with her?”
    “She flirted with me,” he corrected me.  “That’s not breaking the law.”  He squared his shoulders and pushed his way past me, saying, “what the hell kind of wacko cop are you?”  Before I could respond, he disappeared back into the kitchen.  I stood in the cold for a moment, puzzled and a bit embarrassed.  Amanda was flirting with him.  That could explain coming to this particular restaurant instead