Mister X

29

In the Nickel Diner on Broadway in TriBeCa, Joyce House laid out a breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and coffee for the good-looking guy.

That was how she'd come to think of him, because that was what he was-good-looking. He was slightly built, with a mop of curly black hair and magnetic blue eyes, and always dressed a bit showily and expensively. This morning he had on designer jeans, pointy-toed boots that looked like they were ostrich skin, and a tailored short-sleeved black shirt with white buttons. His silver belt buckle was in the form of a soaring eagle. A silver stud earring glinted in each earlobe. Just this side of ghetto fabulous, thought Joyce. But somehow the good-looking guy could bring it off.

Joyce was no slouch in the looks department herself. She was medium height, trim, and buxom, eye candy even in her yellow and white server's uniform. She had straight brown hair with bangs, a perfect pale complexion, and widely set eyes that were like calm dark lakes.

Mick, the diner's owner and overseer of the kitchen, leaned down to look at Joyce through the serving window. His beefy red face was perspiring after a busy breakfast hour. Mick had one of those florid complexions, as if his tie were always too tight and choking him. It was almost ten o'clock, and the diner was empty except for an elderly couple at a table near the rear, and the good-looking guy in a front booth by the window.

"We stay slow," Mick said to Joyce, "why don't you come back and help with the dishwashing?"

Joyce nodded. It was their usual routine. She didn't know why Mick even bothered to ask.

Alice the cashier would remain at her place behind the counter to greet any customers who happened to wander in during the void between breakfast and lunchtime. Alice was a gum-chomping, henna-haired former stock trader who'd opted out of the world of finance five years ago to live a simpler life with Mick. For years they'd been going to get married someday.

"I see you and Mr. Hotshot over there," Alice said, "and I can't help thinking I'm looking at two of God's beautiful creatures. He's been coming in regular for a few weeks now. He ever put any moves on you?"

"None that I noticed," Joyce said.

"You think he might be gay?"

"Hmmm. No."

"Married?"

"Irrelevant."

"So maybe you oughta go over and talk to him. Strike up a conversation about his pancakes. If you don't, I will."

Joyce laughed. "Yeah, you will. With Mick in the kitchen with all those knives."

"He might be in show business or something," Alice said, watching the good-looking guy fork in a bite of pancake. "Now that I look at him, I think I might've seen him in something."

"He might need more coffee," Joyce said.

She lifted the glass pot of decaffeinated from its burner and approached the good-looking guy, who was chewing and staring out the window.

He caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window but didn't turn around, letting her come to him.

"Top you off?" she asked.

He counted to three and swiveled around on the booth's hard wooden seat. Gave her a smile. "Pardon?"

"Your coffee, I mean."

"Sure." He nodded toward the pot. "That decaf?"

"Sure is. Always the pot with the orange top." She poured steaming coffee into his half-full cup. "My friend over there thinks you might be somebody. I mean, in show business."

He laughed. He had very white, very even teeth, made to appear still whiter because he apparently spent time in a tanning salon. And there was something about his hair, like maybe it wasn't so dark and had been dyed. So it could be he was a celebrity who had to be careful about his appearance. He didn't look like the type to be in any kind of outdoor work. Theater in the park, maybe.

"You're an actor," she said.

Big smile. "Yes, I'm Brad Pitt."

Joyce gave him his smile right back. "Well, I guess that makes me Angelina Jolie."

He added cream to his coffee from the little silver pitcher on the table. "Would you really be Angelina if I were Brad?"

The coffeepot was getting heavy, so she set it down. "Why not? That would be kind of a perfect world."

He kept his smile as he leaned back and studied her more closely. It made her uneasy, but not in a bad way. "A perfect world…"

"But it sure isn't that," she said. She picked up the coffeepot, keeping her elbow in tight and back so her right breast strained her uniform blouse.

"Don't go away," he said.

She felt herself heat up like the decaf, and her heart started to hammer.

"Work to do," she said. "Sorry."

She turned away, hoping to hear his voice calling her back. Waiting…

I'm hard to get, hard to get but worth it… Come on…

"If you go away," he said, "I'll have to order something else to make you come back."

Ah! She grinned. She did feel like one of God's beautiful creatures. The good-looking guy made her feel that way.

She turned back around to face him, being careful to keep a neutral expression.

"I wanted to talk, is all," he said.

"About what?"

"Why is it called the Nickel Diner? There's nothing on the menu that's a nickel."

"They always said about Mick, the owner, that he never saw a nickel he didn't pick up."

"Interesting. See, we talked and I learned something."

She smiled. "I didn't."

"Well, we haven't talked long enough. Don't you ever get lonely? Don't you sometimes just want somebody to talk to?"

She put the coffeepot back down on the table. "Yes and yes."

"What size shoe do you wear?"

Huh? "Seven," she said. "Why?"

"I can get you shoes. I'm in New York to help design a new shoe store."

"You're not an actor?" She feigned disappointment.

"Close," he said. "Shoe business."

"God!" she said, and rolled her eyes.

But she did like a man with a sense of humor.

"I can get you shoes," he said again. "You like pumps?"

"Joyce!"

Alice's voice from behind the counter. When Joyce looked over at her, Alice made a sideways motion with her head toward the kitchen. A signal that Mick might be taking an interest in where Joyce was, what she was doing. Mick could make a big commotion, like a major storm with thunder but no lightning. Except maybe if he thought she was flirting with a customer. Then there would be lightning to go with the thunder. He had a thing about that, said it was one of the shalt nots in the diner Bible.

"I really better get back to work," she said to the good-looking guy. "The boss doesn't like even the thought of the help getting to know any of the customers too well."

"We don't know each other too well. But I'd like to get to know you better. It's not just the pancakes talking, Joyce. I mean it."

She almost asked how he knew her name, and then she remembered Alice had just called her. Also, it was on all his breakfast checks along with a little smiley face.

"I'm Loren Ensam," he said, holding out his right hand. It was narrow but long-fingered; he had a pianist's hands.

She shook the hand, feeling its surprising strength though he didn't seem to have squeezed very hard.

"Joyce House," she said.

"Got a phone number, Joyce?"

"Joyce!" Alice called again. With more desperation this time.

"When I go over and total your check," she said, "I'll write it on the copy you keep."

He smiled up at her. "Okay. I'll be honest. I'm in the middle of an ugly divorce, and it wouldn't be to my advantage if my soon-to-be ex learned I was seeing another woman. And if your boss found out about us, you might lose your job and I'd have to find another breakfast stop. So we'll have a secret relationship."

"Sounds like fun." Joyce was already moving away from the booth.

"Oh, it can be," she heard him say behind her.

Of course, he'd never seen Mick blow up.

When she was back behind the counter, Alice grinned at her and said, "So how'd you do?"

"He's married with three kids," Joyce said without hesitation.

She didn't like doing it, but how could she not lie to Alice, who slept with Mick?

Joyce realized that her life had suddenly become more complicated. Secrets, lies, sex. Well, not sex yet. But it was inevitable.

Joyce was looking forward to all of it. She felt an inner turmoil that she didn't at all mind. What was happening was like out of a book, too good to be anything but fiction.

What if he doesn't call?

After she totaled up his check, she wrote her name and drew her customary little smiley face above it. The smiley face didn't seem as happy as usual. She saw that her hand was trembling.

He'll call. Why wouldn't he?

Below her name, on the check's customer receipt, she meticulously printed her phone number, even the area code so there would be no doubt. If Mick was watching, he'd probably think she was diligently itemizing prices.

Careful not even to glance at the good-looking guy, she walked over and laid the check on his table.

He'll call. He's got my number.