The Atheist's Daughter

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Authors: Renee Harrell
much.” The words reverberated strangely, as if the big man was speaking from inside a box. “You hear ‘Martin’, it makes you think of somebody weak and useless. Somebody soft. Every time I say the name, I want to puke in disgust.”
    Schhhct! His mouth reappeared.
    “Here’s what I think,” he continued, “my own personal theory if you will.”
    He moved closer to Martin, pressing his chest forward until it crowded the smaller man. “Anybody uses your first name, they don’t respect you. When you’re in charge, when you’re feared, people use your last name. They know to call you ‘mister’.” He brought his face down until he was nose-to-nose with the café’s former owner. “You want to keep me happy, call me Mr. Brass.”
    Martin blinked at him, speechless.
    “Let’s get going, Marty,” Mr. Brass said in his deep voice. “Those cartons of lettuce aren’t going to put themselves into storage.”
     
    * * *
     
    Sitting on the curb opposite the café, Kristin sipped at a diet cola.
    Something’s the matter with you, girl . You’ve spent your entire morning within viewing distance of what used to be the best restaurant in Winterhaven – and, when lunch time comes, you walk a mile-and-a-half to Bill’s Burgers to get a burger and fries. You don’t even like the food at Bill’s Burgers.
    Her mind teased, Like it better than the new management at Piotrowski’s Café, though, don’t you?
    She opened her cell phone. Almost instantly, the No Network message appeared on screen. Strange. Back when she worked at the café, she’d always been able to get cell reception.
    “Exactly why aren’t you working?” she asked the cell phone. “Is there something wrong with your satellite – or something wrong with here ?”
    From behind her, a voice said, “Did you eat lead chips as a child?”
    Startled, Kristin closed her phone. Putting one well-manicured hand on the concrete curb, Liz Wheeler sat beside her. “Phone call from Mister Imaginary Friend?”
    “I – I....”
    “Piotrowski’s isn’t hiring. I’ve checked.”
    “That’s – no. That’s not...it’s not why I’m here.”
    “It totally is,” Liz said. “You’re scoping them out. It’s obvious.”
    “Did you really ask for a job application?”
    “I didn’t make a special trip here just to get an app, if that’s what you’re wondering. I happened to be here so I asked.”
    “Last year, you told me you’d never be a waitress,” Kristin said. “All the grease was bad for your perfect complexion. It would take the curl out of your gorgeous red hair.”
    “I said I had a perfect complexion?”
    “Inferred.”
    “Regrets.” Liz sighed. “Last year, I had an allowance. That’s gone until I somehow get into college.” She waved a hand over her clothing. “Last season’s designer jeans. The cute emerald sandals, so I don’t tower over every guy I meet? Asian knock-offs. This to-die-for Brazilian blouse? It’s a ramie blend and it wrinkles every time I bend.”
    “You must not bend very much, then.”
    “Bonus points: It was hand sewn by a spoiled redhead with a perfect complexion.”
    “I never said you were spoiled.”
    “I am, though. Was.”
    Kristin said, “If you aren’t job-hunting, why are you here?”
    “Can’t I just be curb-hopping with my best girl buddy?”
    “No.” When Liz looked hurt, she said, “You’re not a curb kind of girl. You’re more of a muscle car kind of girl.”
    “Not when Nana Beggio takes my keys.”
    “Bad Nana Beggio.”
    “If you had a car, you could drive me around.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “No closer than before?”
    “Farther, if anything. Yesterday, I went on a spending spree and bought myself some chapstick.”
    “Spendthrift,” Liz said. “If you must know, I’m hunting for Mouser.”
    “Your grandmother’s cat?”
    “Disappeared again. Gone for two days and Nana is going nuts. It’s only a cat, right? A mean cat.”
    “You like Mouser.”
    “Not –”

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