The sloppy-looking colored fellow with the bad complexion had his right hand handcuffed to the taller white man's left hand, who graciously masked their necessary link using the charitable placement of his newspaper. They drew my attention away from the excellent Swiss-steak, deliciously smothered in rich mushroom and onion gravy. Carla's Wednesday special was better than usual with a real-life exhibition for my speculation and entertainment.
I was lunching alone and had time to kill before my two o'clock appointment upstairs with Doctors Monroe and Simmons. There I would introduce our new generic match of Blocto IV. Had I worked more wisely and scheduled ahead, I would have been dining sumptuously at the River Bluffs Country Club, charming the good doctors with my anecdotes and my more than adequate expense account.
I disliked waiting in Peoria's busiest medical clinic, stuffed with gabby parents and crying children, so I stalled downstairs, eating slowly, while closely observing the eating habits of the wide variety of Carla's lunch customers. Much more interesting than waiting with the usually irritated patients, suffering their time-distorting and endless wait for dispensation of medical miracle. The Clinic's staff was harried and, sadly, just mortal. Waiting was better at Carla's where a steady procession of healthy, hungry and diverse people satisfied my favored habit of studying people.
Over the years of detailing pharmaceuticals, I have acquired accurate insights into people's character and condition. If a man looks like a bum and smells like a bum, that's what he probably is. One can observe and surmise about the condition of people passing by, but rarely do we get the opportunity to check our perceptions and the accuracy of our assumptions.
The disheveled captive and his elegant captor were appealing targets for serious speculation. Possibly great material for an interesting anecdote I could beneficially use to amuse my clientele, if I could somehow divine just what crime was done and background on the perpetrator. That was the downside of people-watching. You have no way to check the accuracy of your speculations.
The short, sullen dark man was concentrating on holding the menu in his left hand, doing all the listening, probably somewhat penitently. From where I was sitting, I could not overhear their conversation, but from their lip movements, the shorter miscreant with beard stubble and oversized teeth seemed to be slurring his words, dropping syllables from words that should not be contracted, and mumbling stiff lipped and poorly enunciated speech. Without hearing word content, I could discern his poor language skill merely watching his mouth.
You see, I practice my articulation before a mirror and find oral motility interesting and quite revealing. The short and sloppy criminal's stiff-lipped smile, most likely intended to mask poor dental work provided criminals at most penal institutions, occurred but once during the time I watched their conversation. His bleak future probably gave him nothing to smirk about. The sophisticated, taller gentleman seemed much too prosperous and polished to be just a common policeman, more likely to be an officer of the law more lavishly rewarded than common policemen. He had to be an able communicator, a mutual skill I practice before mirrors and easily identify in others from the facial mannerisms and their calculated word pauses. He seemed out of place with the coarse criminal his captive most certainly had to be.
The fast-moving, freckled waitress with her pert smile and dimpled cheeks dropped off their menus and water and did not seem concerned that her diners were bunched together, not normally placed, and could be suspected of holding hands. Either she was not a strong student of people like me, or she was used to a wide diversity of customers, unaware of their peculiarities. When she had served me, I had mused on the reason for the small bird tattooed on her forearm and now wondered if her milieu was similar to the captured prisoner. Birds obviously signified freedom or escape. Distracted, my eyes followed her hip-swaying gait as she paraded toward the kitchen.
Later, while the fascinating duo consumed Carla's always featured, economically nourishing but blander meatloaf special, I focused on the pairs' differing table manners. The Foxx look alike had his right hand clomped around his fork in the manner of a child first using table ware, shoveling food toward his mouth, which he neglected to keep discretely closed while chewing, even allowing food juices to dribble toward his chin.
In stark contrast, his loftier master, also restricted to using but one hand, elegantly transported food deftly into his mouth, neatly ingesting even the gravy without requiring mop-ups with his napkin. I was again distracted when the cute waitress asked if I wished a serving of Carla's famous pie. Determining that it came with the special, I decided on mince. Though full, I had twenty minutes to kill, so I asked for ice cream and coffee too. I did wonder why the distinguished member of the mystery pair knew about and frequented Carla's as he, too, seemed a trifle out of place. Excusable lapse of taste, if one knew that the food quality made up for the shoddier working class ambiance.
When my attention again turned to the linked pair, they were clumsily standing. The tall, enigmatic gentleman was risking exposition of their linked status by compassionately allowing his prisoner bathroom privileges. A grant that the miscreant was not expecting or habituated to, for he stood clumsily, hampered by handcuffs.
As he attempted to straighten his poorly draped and cheaply tailored sport jacket, I got a fleeting glance of the small revolver holstered to hide in the small of his back! I knew I must warn his seemingly unaware keeper of the hidden gun before his prisoner made a break for freedom. As they both clumsily walked toward the back corner of the dining room where a small sign indicated restrooms, I decided to risk involvement, afraid that their trip to the toilet might provide the criminal an unfortunate opportunity to escape.
They were awkwardly standing at the urinals, and I took a big chance, standing to the right of the patient and waiting lawman, I cleared my throat, getting his attention. Then I said, very softly but distinctly, "Your prisoner has a gun hidden in the small of his back!"
He looked at me strangely, not grateful, but amused and said "Yes, I know he's got a gun; if he didn't, I'd be long gone. Fact is, if I had the gun, he'd be one embarrassed black cop and I'd be gone like spit on a griddle."
The Redd Foxx look-alike, who was the genuine, gun-bearing cop laughed and laughed, and I sadly realized that this was one anecdote I would never share with my customers.