They had a walk in freezer. It was almost empty which I thought of as a "good thing - bad thing." Good because there was room for the lads. Bad because I knew business at Enrico's was slow but but I hadn't realized how slow. If they went out of business my dining choices would become severely diminished in this area. As in zero.
There was still a McDonald's open across the street but I wasn't a McDonald's type of guy. Not because it was corporate slop that had been packaged as food and was slightly more healthy than eating roadkill off the highway in August. I didn't eat it because it made me constipated. Otherwise, if I was short of money and hungry I would eat there. There is a big difference between being some kind of foodie elitist who would eat owl shit if it was certified organic but would never touch a Big Mac and me. I would eat roadkill if it was my only choice in a heartbeat. Hell, I would eat a foodie if I had too. You did what you had to do and looked for payback when you got a chance.
I left Stepfather staring at the freezer in the kitchen and went out to see if Anna had finished policing the area. She had and was sitting in the next booth over looking a little stunned and rubbing her back. I checked the booth and carpeting around it. It was clean. These kind of incidents rarely are. Once you rupture the human container you end up with an amazing amount of fluids all over the place. I looked myself over. A spot of chicken grease on my shirt was it. Yep. Not bad at all.
"You okay Anna?" I asked her.
She looked up at me. The thick black hair that she usually wore pinned back had come loose and she brushed it out of her face. "Yeah. I'm fine." She hesitated for a couple beats , then added "That was different."
I laughed and told her "Hell. The ways things are going that is the new normal." I had noticed that she had set the handgun on the table with the badge next to it. I picked it up, popped the magazine, racked the slide and caught the round that ejected as it arced through air. I took a quick look at the gun. It was clean and had been taken care. A Ruger SR9. It had probably came from who ever had carried the badge. I palmed the badge, inserted the round back into the magazine, and reloaded. I safed it and handed it to her. "Put this someplace like your purse. I'll be back in a couple days." She held the Ruger like it was an interesting archeological find from another planet. "We'll talk." I told her. Then I was gone.