Evan Hunter - Nobody Knew They Were There

“Yes, sir?” she says.

“I'd like a hamburger and some French fries,” I say.

“How would you like that, sir?”

“Medium rare.”

“And to drink?”

“Have you got any imported beer?”

“Don’t have any beer at all, sir.”

“A glass of milk then.”

“Thank you.” She glances toward the entrance door behind me. My palms are suddenly wet. She goes to the small opening leading to the kitchen, bawls out the order, glances toward the door again, and comes back to the counter in preparation for the newcomers. They seat themselves two stools away from me. They take off their fedoras almost simultaneously and put them on their laps. They are both blond. One of them is wearing a crew cut The other has hair about the length of mine. He glances at me briefly. His eyes are green.

“Help you?” the waitress asks.

“Just coffee,” the one with the crew cut says.

“Two coffees?”

“Mmm,” the green-eyed one says, and nods.

“Regular?”

“Regular.”

The one with the crew cut gets up, walks to the jukebox, turns to his partner and asks, “Anything you’d like to hear, Bob?”

“No, doesn’t matter to me,” Bob answers.

“Well, anything special?”

“Anything by what’s-her-name in there?”

“Who? Streisand?”

“No. What’s-her-name.”

“I don’t see anything. There’s some Streisand, though.”

“Sure, Harold.”

“Streisand?”

“Sure.”

Harold nods his crew-cut head, deposits a quarter in the juke, makes his three selections, and comes back to the counter. Bob’s green eyes flash sidelong at me again. The waitress brings my hamburger and milk. Streisand’s voice soars into the room.

“I’ve got some French fries coming, too,” I remind the waitress.

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” she says absently.

She draws the two coffees, deposits them on the counter before Bob and Harold, and then yells through the opening for my potatoes. The man in the kitchen yells back, “Coming!”

“Coming,” she says to me.

“You go to school here, miss?” Bob asks abruptly.

“Me?”

“Mmm.”

“Yes, I do. Why?” She is smiling a trifle coquettishly, as though expecting a pickup. Bob is not looking at her. His green eyes are fastened to the sugar bowl. He has ladled three teaspoonfuls into his cup, and is now working on a fourth. Harold is watching the transfer in fascination, as though his partner is dredging the Mississippi.

“Know anybody named David Hollis?” Bob asks.

“Why?” the waitress answers. The smile has dropped from her face. She has recognized them, too. She has perhaps never confronted one of them before, but she has heard enough about them, and now she recognizes them and is instantly wary.

“What’s your name?” Harold asks. He slides the sugar bowl over in front of him and puts a carefully measured, level teaspoonful into his coffee. He does not look at the girl as he performs the operation. Neither of the pair seems even the slightest interested in her. This is undoubtedly their personal method of interrogation, and they perform it effortlessly, like two softshoe dancers in a vaudeville palace. It is a frightening routine. Sitting two stools away from them, I feel their overpowering menace and am terrified for the girl. And for myself. And for the plot.

“Why do you want to know my name?” the girl asks.

“You have something to hide?” Bob asks. He is stirring his coffee now. He has not once looked into the girl’s face.

“No. No,” she says, and shakes her head.

“Then what’s your name?”

“Mary.”

“Mary what?”

“Mary Brenner.”

The other waitress, who up to now has been following the conversation with only mild interest, suddenly decides it is time she went to the ladies’ room. She takes her bag from under the counter and unobtrusively disappears. Mary Brenner watches her departure, and then wets her lips.

“ Do you know David Hollis?”

“No,” Mary Brenner says. “Who is he?”

“We thought everybody here on campus knew David Hollis.”

“Well, I’m just a soph, you see,” Mary Brenner says.

“Have you got any Danish pastry?” Harold asks.

“I think so. Do you want some?”

“If you have some.”

“Yes, I think so. Cheese or prune?”

“Prune,” Harold says.

Mary Brenner goes to the pie rack, slides open one of the glass doors, picks up the pastry with a pair of tongs and puts it on a plate, which she carries back to the counter. My potatoes are waiting in the opening just behind her.

“You weren’t here last year then, huh?” Harold asks, biting into the Danish.

“No. Well, yes. But I got here in the fall. I wasn’t here last spring.”

“Why? What happened last spring?” Bob asks.

“I don’t know. I was just saying.”

“You mean, all that business with David Hollis?” Bob asks.

“Gee, I don’t know,” Mary Brenner says, and shrugs.

“Where he tried to kill that guardsman?” Harold says.

“Gee, I don’t know,” Mary Brenner says.

“Thought everybody here at the school would know about that,” Bob says.

“No, I don’t know about it,” Mary Brenner answers.

“So you wouldn’t know where he lives, huh?”

“No. No, I wouldn’t”

“We went to the address we had over near the railroad tracks, but the man living there says Hollis moved out last month. You wouldn’t know where he moved, huh?”

“No. I don’t even know him.” Mary Brenner tries a smile. “I never heard his name before you came in here.” The smile is faltering. “Never,” she says, and shrugs again.

“He’s not in any trouble, you realize,” Harold says.

“Even if he was…”

“This is just a routine check.”

“I still wouldn’t know him.” She studies them for a moment, and then decides she will try to clinch it The lie she is about to tell is immediately transparent; it is a good thing they are not looking at her. “Is he a student here?” Mary Brenner asks.

Bob raises his green eyes from his coffee cup and stares directly into her face. Mary Brenner blinks.

“How much is that, miss?” he asks.

“I’m not finished here yet, Bob,” Harold says.

“Thirty cents,” Mary Brenner says, anxious to speed them on their way.

“I’m not finished” Harold says again.

Bob puts two quarters on the counter. “Keep the change,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“Think your friend might know Hollis?” Bob asks.

“Which friend?”

“The one in the ladies’ room?”

“I don’t know,” Mary Brenner says. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Well now, we can’t go in the ladies’ room after her, now can we?” Bob says, and smiles icily.

“No, I don’t guess so.”

“So why don’t you just pop in there and tell her we’d like a few words with her, okay?”

“Okay.”

“There’s a good girl,” Bob says.

“Miss?” I say.

Mary Brenner is quite anxious to get her girl friend out of the bathroom so that the attention of Harold and Bob will be diverted to someone else —anyone else. But I am just as anxious to get out of here, and when it seems she will ignore my voice, I raise it a few decibels.

“Miss!”

“Yes, your potatoes,” she says.

“No, never mind the potatoes, just let me have a check.”

“Sir, could you wait just one moment, please? These two gentlemen…”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m in a hurry.”

Bob glances at me. He says nothing. Into the silence, a second Streisand record falls into position on the juke. Mary Brenner fretfully bites her lip. She seems on the edge of tears. Her eyes are bright, almost feverish-looking. She writes my check and then hurries off to the ladies’ room. I leave money on the counter and go out of the coffee shop, certain that Bob’s gaze is following me all the way.