Greg and Winn had to pull in close to the table as one of Gwen’s daughters came by with an armful of platters, calling, “Out of the way.”
“We,” Greg repeated. “Me, Winn, my mother, my grandfather. We.”
“Find a seat,” the now-platterless waitress said just above the patter of the other customers.
She said it with a smile, a warm voice, and a hand on Winn’s shoulder, but it was a command.
“Sit,” Ames said.
They sat, losing the supposed advantage of our looking up at them.
“I’ll be right back for your order,” the daughter said. “Coffee?”
“Yes,” said Greg.
“Orange juice,” said Winn.
“How’d you know Ames and I were here?” I asked.
“Went to your place,” Greg said. “Your car, the Chinese guy’s car, and the old cowboy’s scooter were there. The Chinese guy wouldn’t let us in, said you were out for breakfast, so we…”
“His name is Victor,” said Ames. “Victor Woo. Mr. Woo till he tells you to call him otherwise.”
Ames was calm, but I knew by the number of words he had used that he was not pleased by our new breakfast companions. The only one who had spoken less was Winn Graeme, who sat reasonably erect and adjusted his glasses.
“We didn’t mean any disrespect,” said Greg. “I’m a flaming all-inclusive open-the-borders liberal. Right, Winn?”
He gave Winn a shoulder pop with his fist. Winn nodded to confirm Greg’s political assessment.
“My mother bailed Ronnie out,” Greg said. “We all hired you. We want to know what’s going on.”
“His name isn’t Ronnie,” I said.
“What?” asked Greg.
“His name is Dwight Torcelli,” I said. “He’s twenty-six years old and he’s married to Philip Horvecki’s daughter.”
Greg looked stunned. Winn sat silently. It was time again to adjust his glasses.
“Your mother wants to know where he is?” asked Ames.
Greg looked at Ames as if Ames had not been paying attention.
“My mother…”
He was interrupted by Gwen’s daughter bringing breakfast for Darrell, Ames, and me, orange juice for Winn and coffee for whoever wanted it. Darrell, Ames, and I were all having the waffle special with eggs and three slices of bacon.
“Go ahead,” said Greg. “We don’t mind if you eat.”
He said the last part of this after the three of us had already begun to eat.
“Okay,” came a shout above the voices and clattering plates and cups. “Listen up.”
Two tables from us, a trucker in a blue baseball cap and a denim vest over his T-shirt was standing and waiting for attention. His beard was just beyond stubble and he looked more than serious.
“My friend here says Elvis never ate here, that Gwen’s mother just put up that poster and the sign.”
“That’s right,” said the friend, now standing.
He was shorter than the other guy but in better shape, biceps like cement.
“February 21, 1956, Elvis played the Florida Theater in Sarasota,” said Winn aloud. “He had breakfast here on the morning of February 22 and headed immediately for an appearance that night in Waycross, Georgia.”
The breakfast crowd applauded.
“The kid don’t know shit,” the muscled trucker said, with a special emphasis on the word “shit.”
The restaurant went silent.
Gwen’s other daughter, the one with two babies and another on the way, was behind the counter where I usually had breakfast.
“You calling my family liars?” she said.
“My grandfather was here when Elvis came in,” said Winn.
“Bullshit,” said the trucker.
“His grandfather’s still alive and almost ninety-five,” added Greg. “Reverend Graeme of the First Episcopalian Church of Christ the Redeemer would, I’m sure, be happy to come by and settle this.”
People began to applaud and laugh. The defeated trucker mumbled a few obscenities and sat down as the first trucker raised a hand in historic triumph.
“Your grandfather really in here when Elvis came in?” asked Darrell.
“Don’t see how he could have been,” said Greg. “He was in Korea.”
“Yes,” said Winn.
“And,” added Greg, favoring his friend with another punch in the arm, “he’s dead and he wasn’t Reverend Graeme. He was Russell Graeme, co-owner of Graeme-Sydney Chrysler Motors in Sydney, Australia.”
Greg was grinning.
Darrell mumbled something to himself and went on eating. I was sitting next to him and heard, though no one else did.
“Rich white kids,” Darrell had said.
“That the truth about Ronnie?” asked Winn.
“Truth,” I said.
“Why do you want to find him?” asked Ames.
“To talk to him about getting a new lawyer,” Greg said leaning forward. “My grandfather said he’ll pay to get the best available defense team in the nation. The plan was for us to set it up with Ronnie and you keep looking for whoever killed Horvecki. But he’s not Ronnie. I don’t understand.”
“What about Berrigan?” asked Ames.
“Berrigan?” asked Greg.
Gwen’s daughter, the one who had waited on us, touched Winn’s shoulder and quietly said, “Your breakfasts are all on the house.”
Then she moved away to the waving hand of a customer who wanted more coffee or his check.
“Blue Berrigan,” I said.
“What kind of name is that?” asked Greg.
“Dead man’s,” said Ames.
Winn Graeme’s eyes were closed for an instant. Then he removed his glasses, opened his eyes and put the glasses back on.
“The singer?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Where? When did he…?” asked Greg.
“Day ago,” said Ames. “Beaten in his car.”
Darrell was giving his full attention to the conversation now.
“Who is Blue Bennignan?” Darrell asked.
“Berrigan,” Winn corrected. “I used to watch his show when I was a kid. My mother took me to see him when he was at the Opera House in Sydney when I was six.”
“You going to cry?” Greg asked his friend in disbelief before looking around the table to see if anyone else found this particularly bizarre. No one seemed to.
“I know a guy in a gang in Palmetto called Black Brain-banger,” said Darrell. “And there’s a whore up on the Trail goes by Red Alice because…”
“Her hair’s red?” said Ames.
“You know her?” asked Darrell.
Ames took it and Darrell laughed.
“Got you, old cowboy,” Darrell said.
Ames gave a small shake of his head. No one joined the laughter.
Darrell looked and me and said, “I’m just breaking it down and bringing it down Fonesca. Lightening it up, you know what I’m saying?”
Unordered breakfasts for both Greg and Winn arrived, the same thing all of us had.
