The Criten walked in and sat down. He watched the soap opera playing on the flat screen at the end of the room. He scratched his leg. Eventually a man in an apron shuffled up and stood staring at a point two inches above the Criten’s left shoulder.
“Lunch?”
“No, just—” the Criten hesitated, “coffee and an arepa.”
The waiter departed.
Looks like the kind of place Bud used to run—the Criten mused—only grander. It had Charlie Chaplin and Cantinflas posters on the walls, a knock-off Dutch landscape, an old color photo of the Alpha Centauri way station and an even older sign for Jix-Jax Cola.
The coffee was really good. The Criten drank it, eyeing the donut.
He had not asked for a donut, but he was wondering if challenging the waiter would be worth it. He listened to the plates rattling in the kitchen and enjoyed the coffee until the waiter passed. On an impulse, he flagged him down.
“I wanted an arepa.”
The waiter stared at the donut. It looked as if originally, maybe three days ago, it had been glazed. The waiter’s eyes shifted; his head remained hanging. Then he stirred, darted to another table, picked up a bowl of sugar and set it down beside the donut.
The Criten watched this and then sat thinking for a while. He scratched his leg, lifting his pant leg to get at the bare skin. After a while he finished the coffee and surveyed the clientele.
They were mostly short, hangdog-cheerful men in shabby suits. They were the one’s who scurried about the city, its messenger pigeons, brokers of pettiest transactions, grubbers and wheedlers and shysters. They had small feet, shiny shoes and tended to walk very carefully.
The Criten asked the waiter for another coffee and prepared to take up the subject of the donut again. But then a female waiter, a hardwoked woman with red hands and rolled up sleeves brought his coffee.
“Oh,” the Criten said, “Hey, uh . . . I didn’t want a donut.”
“I’ll tell Bill,” she said, and left.
Strike two—the Criten thought. He watched another customer nearby. The man was clumsily shoveling rice into his head. But then he looked up and their gaze met; the man’s fork paused. Glancing away, the Criten met Bill’s shifty gaze and beckoned him impatiently. Bill came.
“Why did you give me a donut?”
“Ain’t you asked for one?”
“No.”
“Thought you asked for one.”
The Criten waited. Bill began to sidle away.
“No you don’t. Get me an arepa . . . instead—” but Bill had departed, and the donut rested beside the sugar bowl still. The Criten sighed and moved the sugar bowl away from the donut, as if that would make the whole thing clear to Bill on his return.
“I don’t want that donut,” the Criten said before Bill could put down the arepa. The other customers glanced over, and the Criten sighed and gripped his forehead with his left hand. When he opened his eyes again, the arepa was near his coffee cup. The donut had been moved to the far corner of the table, but not removed. The arepa steamed.
In a listless way, the Criten began to eat the arepa. One piece was too hot and he had to spit it out awkwardly. He noticed the rice eater was watching him, so he glared back. The man responded by tossing his head in an aggressive, inquiring way, as if to say: What? The Criten glanced away and went on eating his arepa.
When the other customer was paying, he made some altogether unflattering comments about the Criten to the proprietor which the Criten chose to ignore by pretending to scribble important thoughts on a napkin.
On the Criten’s table now, were six empty cups of coffee, an empty plate with arepa grease, a wadded napkin, a napkin dispenser, salt, pepper, a bowl of sugar, ketchup, mustard, pink sauce and a bowl of hot sauce with a little wooden spoon . . . besides the donut at the corner of the table.
Next time the Criten looked up he saw the janitor Angelicus coming out of the restroom. He leaned back and waited as the janitor looked around, spotted him, started, and then approached.
“Hi,” the janitor said. He sat down and fidgeted.
“What are you doing here?”
“I come here a lot.”
“Why?’
“Best coffee.”
“Can’t argue with that. Can’t say the same about the service thought.”
“No?”
“No.”
“That your donut over here?”
“No.”
The janitor helped himself to the donut. Bill approached silently and stood facing the table, staring at the ketchup.
“Coffee,” the janitor said.
“Two,” the Criten added.
After the coffee came, the janitor said, “Nasty business—the Canapia episode.”
“Yeah.”
“Two Clamms.”
“Are they identical?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t know, eh?” which the janitor ignored. The Criten said, “What do they do?”
“Have more drawers now,” and the janitor guffawed like a jackass.
The Criten shot a hostile glance around the restaurant and then looked back at the janitor.
“You work for him.” It was not a question, but meant to sound not entirely unlike one.
“Eh?”
Cunning—the Criten thought. His admiration for the slippery janitor went up a notch.
“Do you work for him?”
“Them?” the janitor said with a grin, but he didn’t answer the question.
The Criten decided to drop it.
“Duplicated better than I did,” the janitor observed, brushing sugar off of his fingers.
“Yeah.”
“Seems to have affected my keys.”
“Oh?”
“Not the same. Sometimes I end up in strange places . . . lately. Which is how I found this one actually.”
“How are the donuts here?” the Criten asked.
The janitor eyed him strangely, then he groaned, then he flopped onto the floor and started gasping like a fish.
The Criten jumped to his feet, bumping into Bill who had come up with a fire extinguisher and was preparing to use it on the janitor.
“Are you insa—” but the Criten broke off. One of the small, hangdog-cheerful men had leapt over, torn his jacket off and was attempting to cover the janitor with it. He also kept saying, “There, there.”
The rest of the customers were chattering excitedly and shouting advice, while the proprietor was hastening to get a bucket of ice.
“Stop!” the Criten roared, but they all looked at him as if he were insane.
And then something truly unanticipated happened. Into the cafe, wearing extremely useful-looking boots, strode Kat, the woman part of the Criten was married to.
She wasted no time in kicking Bill across the room, slinging the proprietor through the service hatch into the kitchen and scattering the remaining clientele. She picked up the unconscious janitor and with him over her shoulder faced the Criten.
“Come on, you idiot.”
“Where?”
“To the TA, of course.” She headed for the restrooms.
“Uh, what’s wrong with the janitor? and where did you come from?”
“Will you shut up for now?” She kicked the door in and pressed one of the studs fastening the mirror above the sinks. The mirror vanished.
“Quick, it’s only a ten second opening,” she said as she climbed into the TA.
Hesitating only briefly, the Criten scrambled after her.
Unknowing 