3: Marie Gets Involved

Marie was scraping the inside of a catsup bottle with a butter-knife when the police arrived.

Don, Marie's boss, insisted that the waitresses extract as much catsup as humanly possible before disposing of the empty bottles. Food costs. That was Don's mantra. Pay attention to the food costs. Catsup costs money, Don liked to remind his staff. At night, Don insisted that the closing waitress consolidate the condiments before being allowed to clock out. Marie was paid $2.13 an hour to salvage hot sauce and catsup while Don pilfered the tip jar. She hated her job.

Marie was attempting to transfer the last globs of dark red ooze from a drained Hienz bottle into a newer one, but the sudden arrival of the police Jeep outside caused her to lose her grip on the knife. It dropped into the empty bottle with a glassy rattling sound.

Don was hurrying to the restaurant's front door, keys in hand, ready to admit the Sheriff and his deputy. His rat-like eyes gleamed with a happy energy that only showed when he was preparing to make someone miserable.

It's the same look he wore on the day that he hired me, thought Marie. Somebody's life is going down the toilet.

With Don distracted, Marie tossed the bottle, knife clanking inside, into a wastebin and covered it with soiled paper napkins. She hated Don, his miserly rules and his condiment obsessions. Throwing his knife away brought her a sense of guilty pleasure; more pleasure than guilt, she admitted to herself.

Why are the cops here? I wonder if Don knows that I threw away two forks and a chipped coffee mug last night?

She had a brief but vivid image of herself out at the County Landfill, looking through endless piles of frozen refuse for Don's forks while the Sheriff and his men watched, shotguns poised. Brrr.

"Gentlemen", said Don to the jacketed officers, opening the door. Cold air pushed into the eatery's vestibule as they entered. The Sheriff, a thin man with a squarish head two sizes too large for his body, merely nodded. The shorter, fatter deputy tried to look important, but his eternally youthful babyface didn't reflect authority. Deputy Hogue, who was 35 years old , was accustomed to being asked for ID if out of uniform when purchasing beer, cigarettes and pornography; his three passions in life. Beer and Camels keep me young, he was fond of saying. He never talked about the porn.

Sheriff Clatterbuck carefully adjusted his belt, ran his fingers over his holstered gun. He removed his wide-brimmed winter hat and looked at it, then put it back on his head.

Urgency was not Sheriff Clatterbuck's strong suit.

"What's the trouble, Don?", he eventually asked.

Don giddily rubbed his soft pudgy hands together.

"Well, gentlemen", he started, pausing for effect, "I have done your work for you. I have foiled a narcotics operation in progress"

Sheriff Clatterbuck didn't react. Deputy Hogue, taking his cue from Clatterbuck's stoicism, did nothing. He was thinking of his new VCR and the pile of adult tapes that came with it.

Marie wiped catsup off her fingers and feigned unawareness.

"Let's hear it", the Sheriff finally responded. He didn't much care for Don. Don was the only restaurateur in town that charged the police full price for coffee. Don's 911 calls were never emergencies and were seldom treated as such.

"Yes. Well. It's seems that one of my employees is a criminal mastermind. A major player in the drug game. A big wheel direct from the mean streets of Chicago."

Clatterbuck shifted his belt again.

Hogue rolled his eyes. Mean streets? Don was an idiot, he concluded.

"I have the contraband to prove it," continued Don."It's in the back. Follow me, please."

Employee? Big wheel? Chicago?, wondered Marie. Was Don talking about Brad, the 19 year-old salad boy/dishwasher? Brad was from the Chicago suburbs. The poor kid had broken his ankle earlier that evening and fainted from the pain. He had been taken to the ski resort's clinic, which specialized in leg and ankle injuries.

Brad, she had observed, could barely set a table. Marie generously estimated Brad's IQ to be in the high 80's, making him an unlikely candidate for a big wheel criminal mastermind.

She sneaked over to the kitchen's doorway and watched as Don led the two policemen through the darkened kitchen's greasy yellow twilight and into the stockroom that doubled as the employee break area.

She heard the sound of a metal locker being opened.

Her heart skipped. There were three Valium in her purse that she had received from another waitress as barter for switching shifts. Had Don raided her locker? She needed her coat and bag anyway, so she strolled casually down the short hallway, pretending she hadn't seen the Sheriff arrive.

In the stockroom, Don had one of the lockers opened. He was gleefully pointing inside.

"Here, gentlemen, is the contraband."

The officers peered into the locker, then looked at each other. The Sheriff shrugged. The deputy reached in and retrieved a Zip-Loc freezer bag full of marijuana.

On TV they put on gloves before they touch the evidence, mused Marie, watching unnoticed from the hallway. Life is pretty much not like it is on TV, she considered, not for the first time.

Hogue looked at the Sheriff.

"It's just a bag of weed, boss. Half pound, maybe. Looks like good stuff."

"Hmmm...go out to the Jeep and get the kit."

Hogue turned to exit the room and Marie reflexively ducked into the dishwasher station, out of sight.

Sheriff Clatterbuck looked at the pot and sighed in resignation. This meant paperwork. Might as well take advantage of the late hour. If he bided his time and took a number of unnecessary steps, he could turn in some overtime and turning the stockroom into a crime scene would add a few extra hours to next Friday's check.

Hogue returned momentarily, carrying a grimy dufflebag bearing the County seal. Marie snuck back to the hall and observed as he rummaged inside the sack and produced an ancient-looking Polaroid camera, checked it for film.

Flash!

He took a snapshot of the crime scene, pulled the film out and waved it around in a futile attempt to help it dry.

"This", explained Don, pointing to the dope, "is the property of Brad Bradley, who is currently a guest at the Resort Clinic. These drugs will never destroy America. I have intercepted the shipment."

Sheriff Clatterbuck removed his hat and scrutinized the rounded felt interior. There was a dark gray ring around the headband, he noted. Perhaps he would buy a new hat next winter. Or in the spring, when they are cheaper. He contemplated his hat for a moment longer before he spoke.

"Don, can we sit down? I need to get your statement."

"Certainly, Sheriff. We can sit at the bar. Coffee is on the house tonight."

"Great."

Marie slid into the dishroom as the trio of crime-stoppers returned to the dining room.

After they passed, she entered the stockroom and nervously opened her own locker. Her purse and coat were just as she had left them. She pulled the Navy blue peacoat on and tucked the leather bag under her arm.

That poor kid, she muttered, thinking of Brad. First he breaks his ankle, now this.

She looked at Brad's open locker. The bright green marijuana was still there.

Nice buds, she noted.

Marie glanced around her. She was alone.

She grabbed the dope, slipped it under her coat and walked towards the rear exit. As an afterthought, she picked up a heavy cardboard case of 20 oz. catsup bottles and carried it outside with her.

She set the box on the ground behind the building and lifted the metal lid of the restaurant's dumpster.

With some effort, she hoisted the case of catsup up and tossed it over the rim and into the filthy blue container. She could feel Don's food costs rising as the carton bounced on the refuse and clanged against the cold metal dumpster's side.

Catsup costs money.

I quit, thought Marie.

But she had only begun.