Fair and just, p.1
Fair and Just, page 1
Fair and Just
A Penelope Phair Mystery
Alex P. Berg
Fair and Just, Penelope Phair #1
Copyright © 2021 by Alex P. Berg
All rights reserved. Published by Batdog Press.
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No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer or with written permission from the author. For permission requests, please visit: www.alexpberg.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in this novel are a product of the author’s imagination.
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Cover Art by: Ravven (www.ravven.com)
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If you’d like to be notified when more Penelope Phair novels are released, please sign up for the author’s mailing list at: www.alexpberg.com/mailing-list/.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
About the Author
Chapter One
Porcelain plates clattered off the counter, oil sizzled and spat on a hot stove, and above the constant roar of the kitchen, I heard the sous-chef’s cry. “Order up!”
I turned myself sideways and thought skinny thoughts as Annabel came toward me with a tray of draft beers. She pivoted and lifted the tray, and we orbited each other between the food service racks with an ease that belied the many broken pint glasses who’d sacrificed themselves for us to get there. The grace with which she balanced the tray and darted down the hall made me think once again that she might make a great jammer for my roller derby team, but her scrawny arms and general lack of size would work against her no matter how serpentine she might be. Of course, asking her to join the Monster Maids would mean admitting to her I played roller derby in the first place, and despite having worked at Gil’s Diner for the past five months, I still wasn’t sure I was ready for anyone there to learn what I did in my free time. For some reason, having strangers watch me elbow chicks while wearing a pink polka-dot skirt and a matching tank top felt different than having friends do it.
The sous-chef cried out again, reminding me why I’d ducked into the kitchen in the first place. I danced to the counter and picked my order slip from the ticket holder, tucking it into my apron pocket as I loaded table sixteen’s meatloaf and club sandwich onto a tray. With the earthy scent of Gil’s signature smoked loaf thick in my nostrils, I swirled back down the aisle and through the swinging door, trading the clatter of the kitchen for the din of the dining room. The lunch rush was always hectic at Gil’s, but not a single chair was empty today, nor a single mouth closed judging by the volume.
I wove my way between the booths, ducking to the side as a man sprung up from a padded bench to my right. I might not be as lithe as Annabel, but I was quick on my feet, a skill I’d honed long before I ever thought about strapping on a pair of skates and elbow pads. Waitressing may not have been a contact sport, but knowing how to move sure didn’t hurt.
I slid between two chairs as I made my way to table sixteen by the windows. A pair of white collar types sat there, one a goblin with light green skin, wide set eyes, and pointy ears, the other an ogre or troll half-breed, almost as wide as he was tall, wearing a cheap suit, a too-tight necktie, and with a nose shaped like a butternut squash. The goblin stockbroker leered at me as I approached the table, but I flashed a forced smile anyway.
“Here you go, gentlemen,” I said as I eased the plates off my tray. “One meatloaf for you, sir. And for you, a roast beef club, hold the tomatoes. Can I get you anything else?”
The overweight half-breed blinked at the sandwich in front of him. He jabbed a chubby hand at it accusingly. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s… a roast beef club, without tomatoes.”
Gourd Nose turned his fat finger toward me. “Don’t get fresh with me, young lady. I can see it’s a sandwich, but it’s not what I ordered.”
“It isn’t?” I cocked my head, though not on purpose. It’s just my natural reaction when I’m confused.
Gourdy noticed my tilted head and jammed his finger further under my nose. “You’re darned right it isn’t. I told you I wanted a turkey club, without mayo, and I said I didn’t want the bread toasted.”
I may not have the most acute nostrils in the universe, but I know what a load of bull smells like. “Are you sure about that?” I started to slide the order slip from my pocket. “I could’ve sworn I wrote down—”
“Well, whatever you wrote, you got it wrong.” Gourdy flashed me a set of crooked teeth. “Now get your tight little behind back in that kitchen and get me what I ordered.”
My jaw tightened at the mention of my backside, but I knew the job, and I knew this was a fight I wasn’t going to win. “Right. Sorry about that. I’ll just get this out of your way…”
Gourdy slapped my hand as I reached for his plate. “You kidding me? I’m a busy man, and I’ve only got fifteen minutes to eat. If I want any lunch at all, I’m gonna have to choke down this slop. Just get me the turkey club to go. Come on. Skip to it!”
Between the two-crown suit and the rolls of fat that threatened to spill out of it, it wasn’t too hard to figure out what Gourdy’s gambit was. Gil’s wasn’t in the habit of handing out free meals, but it sure seemed like the ogre had figured out how to game the system.
“You bet,” I said between clenched teeth. “I’ll get right on that.”
Gourdy shouted at me as I turned, his voice carrying over the clamor. “And get us some refills on these waters while you’re at it, Toots!”
I missed a step at the sleazebag’s call. I could deal with the fact that he and his leering goblin friend hadn’t ordered anything to drink that would fatten my tip, but him tossing sexually charged slang my way really burned my biscuits. Nonetheless, I gave him a sideways nod and said, “You got it.”
With my tray clenched between steel fingers, I waltzed back through the kitchen’s swinging double doors to the order counter. I leaned across the polished steel and hollered so I’d be heard over the hiss and sizzle of the stove. “Hey Tony! Had an order mixup. Need a turkey club on the double, eighty-six the mayo! Put it in a doggy bag, and don’t toast the bread unless you want me back here in a hot minute.”
Tony was in mid-twenties, same as me, with a strip of pale fuzz across his upper lip that made him look even younger than he was. He looked up from the grill, sweat pouring from under his white cap. “Gods almighty, Nell, can’t you keep an order straight? I’m deep in the weeds here, and table twelve didn’t order hockey pucks.” He flipped a couple of the patties on the grill for emphasis.
“Give me a break, Tony,” I said. “It’s not my fault. The guy at sixteen’s acting like a real George Eddy.”
Tony waved his spatula at me. “Alright, alright. Gimme a minute!”
I grabbed a pitcher of ice water and headed back out. Table six needed their glasses refilled, twelve asked for the check, and the guy at twenty-one gave me the old lifted finger. He ordered another round of cheese fries for his table and got his glasses refilled too, so by the time I got back to sixteen it had been a couple minutes and my pitcher was feeling a little light.
Gourd Nose scowled as I picked up his sweaty glass and refilled it. “Hmph. Took you long enough.”
Once again I kept my composure, even as his lunch mate Leery McStevens kept undressing me with his eyes. “We’re slammed. Trying to do the best we can.”
“Well, try a little harder, will you? And where the heck is my sandwich?”
I glanced at Gourdy’s plate, which was picked clean except for the lettuce we’d served it on. Slop, my ass…
I sloshed the icy dregs into Creepy’s glass. “I’ll check on that. Just a moment.”
Another table tried to flag me down as I retreated to the kitchen, but I put my blinders on and acted like I hadn’t noticed. The swinging door slammed against the backstop as I pushed through and bore down on the order counter.
“Tell me something good, Tony,” I called.
Tony stood before the prep table, arms blurring cartoonishly as he stacked and assembled. “Keep your shirt on, Nell. Just gimme a sec.”
“Oh, come off it. You’d love it if I took my shirt off.”
He snorted and slid the paper bag across the counter toward me. “Don’t you dare. If the health department catches you, my wallet’s gonna get real slim real quick.”
<
The cook was too busy to crack a retort, already having scuttled back to the grill. I plunged back through the swinging doors and made a beeline for sixteen, once again ignoring the pleading eyes and wagging finger of the guy at seven.
Gourdy gave me the stink eye as I approached, yet still I smiled. I scooped up his clean plate and slid the to-go bag into its place. “Here you go, sir. Turkey club, hold the mayo, plain bread. Anything else I can get for you today?”
Gourdy snapped open the bag. His eyes bugged out and he snarled, not with faked righteous indignation as he had the first time but with actual rage. “You’ve gotta be friggin’ kidding me! What the hell are you trying to pull, Doll?”
If Tony pulled a prank on me, I’d not only refuse to give him a peek at what was under my shirt, I’d pry his toenails off one by one with a hot poker. As it was though, since I didn’t know what was in the bag, I kept my teeth pressed into a smile and pretended to give a damn. “Is there a problem?”
“You’re damned right there’s a problem!” Gourd Nose dumped the sandwich on the table. Tony had wrapped it in waxed paper, but the turkey and other fillings showed through where he’d sliced it in half. Gourdy jammed his finger into the middle, pointing at a juicy slice of red vegetable. “You want to tell me what that is?”
My patience tank was running on empty, and I’d already figured I was getting stiffed on my tip. I didn’t have many darns left to give. “It’s a tomato. They grow on vines. Good for digestion. Lots of people like them on sandwiches.”
Gourdy’s scowl deepened. “Don’t get smart with me. I know what it is. I want to know what the hell it’s doing on my sandwich!”
I sighed. “It comes on a club. If you didn’t want it, you should’ve told me to hold it like you did with the mayo.”
“I did tell you to hold it!” bellowed the guy. “You got wax in your ears or something?”
“You asked me to hold it on your first club,” I said. “Remember it? The roast beef one you didn’t order and didn’t want but treated like a bowl of chocolate ice cream?”
Gourdy pushed himself to his feet. His arm darted out, and his chubby fingers wrapped around my arm. “Now listen here, you hash-slinger. It’s bad enough you got my order wrong, but I’m not about to get smart-mouthed by some dumb broad.”
My muscles tightened, not just the ones in my arm but all over. I unclenched my jaw enough to speak. “Let go of me.”
Gourdy sneered. “Or what?”
In retrospect, I don’t think I hit him that hard, but I’ve always been a poor judge of my own strength. I’m no delicate flower, no matter how many men I’ve met over the years might’ve wanted me to be. I could dish it out even better than I could take it, which was one of the reasons I liked roller derby so much. Even beyond my temperament, I had some size. Word was my grandfather on my dad’s side was a half-troll, though I’d never met the man, and many of the humans and elves and dark elves who’d sown their seeds into my family tree were on the taller end of the bell curve.
No, I don’t think it was the force of my blow that did it but rather the fact that I hit Gourdy square in the neck. The big guy choked and sputtered. Both of his hands shot to his throat, as if he might be able to pry the force of my blow from his windpipe by force. He stumbled and tripped on air. His wide rear hit the table first, but the rest of him wasn’t far behind. Leery’s glass of ice water leapt toward the ceiling, followed by the remains of his meatloaf, the silverware, the salt and pepper shakers, the bottle of katsup, and Gourdy’s uneaten turkey club of course, which unwrapped itself as it flew, spreading slices of turkey, lettuce, and tomato over everyone within a three table radius.
At least there wasn’t any mayo on the bread.
Gourdy hit the tile like a sledgehammer, but it was the rain of lunchmeat that quieted the cacophony in the dining room to a disgruntled murmur. I felt about fifty sets of eyes turn on me, and over the newly subdued grumble I heard the sharp crack of my manager’s voice. “Miss Phair! A word.”
He stood by the bar, his lips twisted in anger, one eye narrowed. On the best of days, my shift manager’s disposition was about as warm and sunny as a January snowstorm, but the look on his face told me my conversation with Gourdy was about to become only the second worst one of my day.
Chapter Two
The door to my apartment creaked as I pushed on it. Mid-afternoon sun streamed through the living room windows, but the beams couldn’t cheer me any more than they could during my walk home. I slammed the door shut and kicked my shoes off, tossing them in the general direction of the boot tray.
I stomped past the moth-eaten floral print couch toward the kitchen. A pastel green Frigidator stood in the middle, its enameled paint as glossy as the day Mick got it for me, though the stainless steel handle no longer gleamed. Mick claimed he’d bought it as my birthday present, and in his defense, it had been my birthday when he showed me the magazine ad, but in every other respect the purchase had been a cop out. Mick knew I hated to cook—Tony at Gil’s joked I could burn water, and he wasn’t far off—but beyond that, the first generation Sherman Electric we’d replaced with the Frigidator could barely keep a bottle of milk cool in February. Mick claimed the Sherman’s last gasps were coincidental with when I’d happened to be born, but lo and behold, two days after the new Frigidator got installed, I’d found two cases of his favorite beer lounging inside the chilly molded interior.
I could’ve used a beer as I tugged on the Frigidator’s handle, but not a single bottle greeted me from within, of beer, milk, or anything else. The fridge was as barren as a buffet ravaged by a full scrummage team. The only things in it were a sack of carrots who’d all sprouted roots and a casserole that had turned into the home of a brave and resilient group of neon orange fungal spores—brave and resilient because they’d grown over the pale green fungus that had died upon tasting the casserole the first time around.
I sighed as I closed the fridge. If my manager had even half a heart, he would’ve poured me a drink before canning me, but apparently he thought being dressed down in front of a packed house was a stiff enough libation for a young woman of my ‘limited social graces’—his words, not mine.
Luckily, not every beverage in Mick’s and my apartment needed to be kept at crisp, winter temperatures. I stooped down, rummaging in the cabinet underneath the toaster for the liquor. Most of the bottles were on their last legs, but a fifth of gin still had a full belly. Not exactly the best spirit to drink on its own, but as pirates of yore used to say, any port in a storm, and today had caught me in a derecho.
I dug some ice cubes out of the tray in the freezer, tossed them into a glass, and filled it with a few fingers of gin. The cubes clinked against the sides as I swirled it all together. Before it had even cooled, I lifted the glass and took a long drag. The liquor burned my throat, but once the contents hit my bloodstream, I’d feel better… wouldn’t I?
I set the glass down with a sigh. Mick wouldn’t be happy I’d lost my job, even if he brought home more than I did. He covered our apartment’s rent in its entirety, but he always told me I had to pay my fair share. He brought it up when he’d purchased the Frigidator not-a-present, reminding me not so subtly it was my responsibility to keep it stocked. Now I wouldn’t be able to do even that, though on the bright side, it meant I’d probably burn fewer meals.
