She dropped the severed head onto the linoleum floor. A bloody cleaver hung from her apron pocket, soaking the cheap fabric red. The waitress was as good with the knife as with the gun. Lauren knew that she was in trouble.
Still gripping the Glock, the waitress made her way closer to Lauren. Her hair was the color of twine with just about the same frizz. Lauren noticed for the first time that her face was completely dotted like her mother’s—you couldn’t tell when the freckles stopped and the age spots started. The skin underneath her chin sagged. The waitress was too old to accept any bullshit, especially from a younger woman. Lauren would have to play this straight.
“They have it now. Or at least had it.” Lauren gestured back towards the Man’s lifeless body and the smear of brain left on the wall.
“Get his keys.”
Lauren complied, stuffing her hand into the man’s jeans pocket, one at a time. Her suspicions were confirmed: the Man didn’t have much to offer.
Lauren remained silent, and fished a circle of keys—including a Ford’s—in the left pocket. She also felt something round and hard which she kept hidden in her palm.
She dangled the keys for the waitress to see. The nose of the Glock directed her out the door to the parking lot.
Police sirens wailed in the distance and Lauren estimated that they had a good five minutes before the black-and-whites arrived.
“Let’s get on with it.”
Lauren didn’t have any arguments with that. But she discovered that she didn’t need any keys because the truck door was already open. The cab was empty, aside from a couple Circle K coffee cups on the passenger side floor.
Underneath a dim street light, yards away, they saw a slight man in an apron carrying a duffel bag make a run for an old Impala. The door slammed and the engine revved before the car tore out of the gravel lot onto the street.
“Fuckin’ Felipe,” the waitress said.
Around the corner on the other side three police cars came speeding in, their sirens and lights blazing.