Free Konrath, Joe - Dirty Martini by J.A. Konrath Page A

transportation. Plus, no risk of a car being seen. Sammy’s Family Restaurant is a few miles away. He takes the bus. Sammy’s is open twenty-four hours, and at this time of morning it caters to the prework crowd and the people getting off late shifts.
    It’s part of a chain. He wonders if it’s publicly traded. He wonders how much money will be lost when the stock takes a dive tomorrow.
    Get ready for a bear market, he thinks, then enters the restaurant.
    Just his luck, the place is so full there’s a ten-minute wait for tables.
    The Chemist studies the crowd. Lots of twenty-somethings. A few loners. Old people. Yuppies. And some off-duty cops, waiting to be served.
    Perfect. This is going to be exciting. Really exciting.
    He buys a newspaper from one of the coin machines in the restaurant lobby, leans against the wall, and waits.
    A few minutes later, he’s given a table for one. He makes small talk with the fat waitress, and eventually orders the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet that Sammy’s is famous for.
    He approaches the salad bar like a sinner approaches an altar, reverent and nervous. The owners of Sammy’s have installed a clear plastic sneeze shield at eye level, so germs don’t contaminate the food.
    How thoughtful of them, the Chemist muses. So concerned for their customers’ health.
    The Muzak can barely be heard above the loud conversations, so he knows no one will hear the hiss of his gun. He picks up a plate from the stack, still warm from the dishwasher, and gets in line behind two blond girls with jeans that just barely cover their butt cracks.
    The big bowl of diced fruit, resting on a bed of crushed ice, gets his attention first.
    Psssssssssst. Pssssssssssssst.
    Then he moves to the pan of scrambled eggs. Then the bacon. The dry cereal. The obligatory red gelatin. Sausages. French toast. Waffles. And a large tray of Danish and bagels.
    The Chemist leaves the buffet spread with a large plate of food that he has no intention of eating. He surreptitiously detaches the jet injector and sticks it into his pocket. Then he returns to his table, opens the paper to a random page, and pretends to read.
    But he’s really watching the salad bar.
    The cops are the first ones there, and he has to bite his lower lip to stop from grinning. They pile their plates with enough poison to kill a large town.
    A yuppie couple next. Then some black guys. A father with a young son who demands Jell-O—he should have gone to school today, Dad. A single guy going for toast seconds. One of the blond girls, returning for more eggs. An old man who is filling two plates, one for his crone of a wife waiting back at their table. The Chemist loses count after a dozen people have come and gone.
    The first person begins to convulse less than five minutes later.
    It’s one of the cops. First he’s patting his forehead with a napkin. Then he’s clutching his stomach. Then he’s on the floor, shaking like he’s plugged into an electrical outlet.
    The Chemist can stare openly, because everyone else is as well. One of the other cops places a call on his radio, doubles over, then spews a lovely green vomit all over his fallen partner.
    People are on their feet now, their shocked expressions priceless. The Chemist stands as well, feigning horror.
    The little boy is next. His face plops right into his plate of gelatin, and Dad begins screaming for help.
    Soon many people are screaming.
    One of the yuppies, moaning nonsensically, runs full-tilt into another table, sending food and patrons flying.
    The old man has something spilling from his mouth that appears to be drool, and he’s shaking with palsy so badly that his false teeth pop out.
    More vomiting. More moaning. A mad rush for the door, where a girl who didn’t even eat at the salad bar is trampled. The last cop, apparently hallucinating, fires his gun into the crowd, then begins aiming out the window at people on the sidewalk.
    It is absolutely glorious. Truly a scene from