Ramon, the line cook, paused with the spatula full of cold greaszy hash in midair only to slap it onto the overheated grill with a SMACK! from ten inches off the deck in a diner whose counter was littered with tips that contained pennies.
Lonnie sat four stools down from the cop, hunching his upper torso rapidly up and down toward the counter's edge to the beat of music that didn't exist, and loudly spinning a quarter on its edge again and again as he shot sidelong, darted glances at the cop he thought he might'a recognized.
Baker enjoyed one of the few walking beats left in the city and saw Lonnie around on the streets actin' the punk, always in his black, studded, imitation leather jacket and threadbare jeans bought used and probably not laundered since the last break-in at his parents' house.
Irene stood at the stockroom's end of the counter beyond the cop, prepping beige indestructo Melmac plates from the 50s with burger condiments mechanically stacked with lettuce leaves, green-tinged tomato slices and pickle chips for lunch plates that would take flight and sail the counter in just a couple hours.
Baker caught one of Lonnie's stares, "You might wanna take a long hike, kid, because your customers just might be gunnin' for you out there, today," smiled Baker, now staring at his coffee as he continued.
"See, yesterday, I grabbed the dime-bags you taped under the counter here at my stool, flushed the rocks, and replaced them after Ramon, Irene and I had a little party makin' rocks outta powdered sugar, MSG and baking powder that won't burn so good in your buddies' crack pipes," but before Baker could swallow his next sip, the only sounds in the place were a rapid succession of Lonnie's stool-top spinning on its pedestal as the door-closer thunked shut ringing the bell and a quarter fell vibrating itself to silence before an encore of erupting laughter.
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