Outlaw Love: 4

    It’s three-fifteen on a Tuesday afternoon. I’m having early supper – burger and fries, Pepsi and a couple of Ivy’s delicious chocolate chip cookies – in Hank’s Hideout. It’s too early for the supper crowd and only one late-luncher is still in the dining area. Hank has turned the jukebox off and has the sound muted on the television hanging on the wall behind the cash register. There are a few sounds – the light whoosh of air through the ceiling vents, the humming of the refrigerator under the bar, and an occasional clink as Hank does a final spot check in preparation for the five o’clock rush.
    I’m sitting at a table about twenty steps from the bar. Enough distance for privacy but near enough that I can hear the murmur of Hank and Leroy’s voices as they discuss the ballgame playing on the TV. Hank occasionally points at the TV, a cleaning rag wadded in his hand, and Leroy has tipped his long-neck Bud toward the TV a time or two.
    It’s a beautiful early summer day, and I was surprised to see Leroy’s Harley (black, of course) in the parking lot when I arrived a few minutes ago. He was at the bar when I came in. I nodded ‘hello’ to him and Hank then placed my hamburger order with Ivy before I sat down and began reading my latest book acquisition. 
    Ivy, Hank’s sister, is super efficient in the kitchen so I have time to read fewer than a dozen pages before she places my supper in front of me. I thank her for bringing the food, close my book, and begin eating.
    And study Leroy.

    He is in his usual attire: well-worn (and well-fitting) Levi’s, faded blue T-shirt (snug across muscular shoulders), scuffed western boots (that look comfortable), and a black ball cap. I mentally run through a checklist: Tall? Check. About six-two. Dark? Check. Wavy black hair I’d love to get my fingers in. Handsome? Check. Rugged cowboy looks.
    Leroy appeared in Hank’s Hideout around eight months ago, and soon became a regular. He’s in here most late afternoons, occasionally until Hank’s midnight closing. He sits at the bar so I don’t have a chance to wait on him while I work as Hank’s hostess and waitress.
    I’ve said hello to Leroy a few times, and that’s all I’ve ever gotten in return. The only people I’ve seen him interact with, besides Hank, is law enforcement personnel who sometimes have short, apparently intense, conversations with him. A few female customers have attempted to strike up conversations with him but haven’t gotten any further than I have. Leroy always leaves alone.

    I finish the hamburger, decide not to eat the last few fries on the plate, and wrap the cookies in a napkin – I’ll stash them under the counter; there’s usually a lull in the crowd around eight-thirty so I’ll eat the cookies then. By the time I take the plate and glass to the kitchen and don an apron, Leroy is leaving; I hear his Harley start and rumble down the road. I put my book and the cookies under the bar, and since there’s no one in the bar or dining area besides me and Hank, I decide to ask about Leroy.

    “Hank, do you know anything about Leroy besides his name and favorite beer?” I ask. “You’re about the only person I ever see him talk to.”
    Hank laughs. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to ask about him. I’ve seen you eyeing him.”
    I feel my face getting red. “I hope he hasn’t noticed,” I say.
    Hank pats my arm. “I don’t think he has. He’s pretty well self-contained.”
    “Does he ever say anything about what he does? You know, like a job?”
    Hank’s reply is slow in coming. “I’ve not asked and he doesn’t volunteer personal information. We discuss whatever’s on TV when he’s in here.” He swipes the cleaning rag over a non-existent spot on the counter. “And I’ve never wanted to ask.”
    I nod, disappointed that Hank knows no more about Leroy than I do.
    As I turn to start wrapping silverware in napkins, Hank says, “Felicity, I know you have more than a slight interest in him. But I think you should be careful. Very careful.”
    Hank doesn’t give me any more information as he walks around the bar and toward the front door, on his way out for his afternoon stroll. He’s always been like a big brother to me, but has never cautioned me about anyone I’ve dated – not that dating is something I do much of.
    I apply myself to readying the dining area for the supper crowd – placing menus and silverware on each table, ensuring salt and pepper shakers and condiment containers are filled and clean. Satisfied that the dining area is above reproach, I walk to the kitchen to see if Ivy needs my assistance in any way; she has everything under control, as usual, so I return to the bar, pull out my book, and perch on a barstool to read for a few minutes before the supper crowd arrives.

    Two weeks later, and much more wrapping of napkins around silverware and waiting on tables, I’m surprised Thursday afternoon when Hank asks me to run the bar as well as the dining area all day Monday and Tuesday morning.
    “Run the bar? Aren’t you going to be here?” I ask. I’ve never run the bar past occasionally pulling a cold beer from the cooler, and while I could make a whiskey sour or Jack and Coke, I don’t think I could manage an elaborate mixed drink.
    “Wanda’s mother’s sick. We’re going down Sunday morning and won’t be back until Tuesday. Think you can manage the bar and the dining area on your own that long?”
    “I should be able to but what about mixing drinks? I’ve never done that.”
    “Monday’s lunch crowd is usually light,” Hank replies, “and most everyone drinks straight bourbon or beer, so you shouldn’t have to do more than a simple Jack and Coke.” He eyes me for a moment. “You do know how to do that?”
    “I can do that, but what if I put in too much whiskey? Won’t that hurt your profits?”
    Hank laughs. “I doubt you’ll use that much whiskey. It’s not Friday or Saturday, so people won’t be drinking as heavily as they do then. You’ll be okay.”
    On Friday and Saturday I work both days and evenings so I can watch Hank mix drinks. He’s right. Most people drink straight bourbon or beer, sometimes bourbon with a beer chaser. The few patrons who request mixed drinks are Jack and Coke or whiskey sour drinkers. I make a few notes and Hank shows me the mix book in case someone does want something else. 
    Leroy comes in Saturday just before lunchtime, which is unusual. He and Hank immediately get into a discussion about the current news item on CNN, so Leroy and I just nod hello to each other. I walk through the dining area to make sure everything is ready for customers. The lunch crowd is light, and we have the usual Saturday night assortment of diners and drinkers, so the evening runs smoothly. 

    Sunday, I skim through the mix book. Hank told me to look it over before Monday, and I definitely need to make sure that I take it back to work. If I don’t it’ll be my luck someone will request something that I’ve never heard of. Hopefully, if they do, the recipe is in the book, and Hank has all the appropriate ingredients on the shelves.

    Monday arrives and I’m thankful Hank’s Hideout doesn’t open until ten-thirty and doesn’t start serving alcohol until noon. And that the lunch crowd is lighter than the supper crowd, and it’s Monday and the supper crowd isn’t usually too bad, so maybe I can tend bar and keep the dining room running smoothly without any major disasters. 
    Leroy comes in just as the lunch crowd starts arriving. I’m surprised to see him at this hour. He sits at the bar. The TV is off so I hand him the remote then ask, “Your usual?” before I realize it’s not quite eleven.
    Evidently Leroy knows the liquor laws in town, for he says, “In an hour.”
    Though embarrassed by my gaffe, I manage to ask him if he wants lunch. I’ve never seen him eat a meal here so have no idea if he will.
    “In a bit,” he replies.
    When noon arrives, I retrieve an ice-cold long-neck Bud from the beer cooler and set it on the bar in front of him. He nods his thanks, and I ask, “Do you want lunch?” 
    He replies for the second time, “In a bit,” and takes a long pull of the Bud.
    Most of the lunch regulars are ordering salads – must’ve gone off their diets over the weekend – so handling the dining room and running the bar isn’t too difficult. Hank was right – the Monday lunch crowd doesn’t imbibe heavily; a few people request beer with their lunch, and two men ask for a shot of bourbon.
    By one-twenty, most of the lunch crowd have returned to their work. Leroy is still at the bar, taking occasional sips of his third Bud. He hasn’t ordered any lunch; I asked him once or twice if he wanted anything and got a “Later” in response.

    At one-thirty I finish cleaning the dining area. I stop by the bar on my way to the kitchen with a tray of dishes. “I’m putting in my lunch order. Do you want anything?” I ask Leroy.
    He gives me a long look. About the time I decide he’s not going to answer, he asks what I’m going to have.
    “A BLT. Maybe some fries.”
    Another long look before he says, “Tell Ivy to fix me one also. No mayo or such.”
    “Okay,” I reply and take myself and the tray of dishes into the kitchen.
    Orders placed, I return to the bar. Leroy has been the only one sitting at the bar so it’s still clean from my morning wipe-down. I notice his Bud is about half-gone and ask if he wants another one. He shakes his head, and I get myself a glass of Pepsi from the fountain. As I lay a few napkins on the bar, I’m wondering if I could get a conversation going with him. Ivy interrupts that train of thought by setting our BLT’s and an order of fries in the pick-up window and ringing the bell. I retrieve our food and place it on the bar in front of Leroy.
    I pull out the stool Hank keeps stashed under the bar, sit down and begin eating lunch. About the third bite, I notice Leroy hasn’t started eating. “Is something wrong?” I ask.
    He grins. “Naw. Just like to see someone enjoy a meal.”
    I feel myself blush, and am thankful the lighting in here is somewhat dim, so maybe Leroy won’t notice. My mother was always distressed by my eating habits – I wasn’t the dainty Little Miss Priss Ruffles and Bows daughter she thought I should be. I enjoy a good meal and have no qualms about “digging in.”
    “Ivy’s a great cook,” I reply, and take a drink of my Pepsi.
    He grins again, picks up his sandwich and begins eating. “You’re right. Ivy’s a great cook.”
    I apply my attention to the food, as does Leroy, and we quickly lay waste to the BLT’s and fries. 
    I reach for the last fry just as Leroy does. Our fingers meet and I’m amazed at the warmth I feel. I jerk my hand back and say, “You can have it.”
    He picks up the fry, breaks it in half and hands a piece to me. I hesitantly take it, then lay it on my plate. Leroy raises an eyebrow. “Afraid of cooties?”
    I  laugh. I hadn’t heard of cooties until I was an adult, and to hear this usually barely-communicative Harley rider ask if I’m afraid of them is funny. 
    “No,” I reply, then pick up the fry and eat it. 

    As our plates are empty of food, I collect them and return them to the kitchen. When I return to the bar, a twenty is laying by the empty Bud, Leroy is gone and I can faintly hear his Harley traveling away from Hank’s Hideout.
    I turn off the TV then refill my Pepsi. I sit down on the stool behind the bar and wonder why Leroy was in here at lunchtime. The only reason I can come up with is that Hank asked him to be. Then I wonder why Hank would do that as I’ve worked here long enough he should know I’ll do the job the way it’s supposed to be done. Then decide that men are indecipherable and I could use my time better by reading whatever book I have handy.
    I decide to take a short break. I utilize the ladies’ room, then walk outside to the picnic tables under oak trees at the edge of Hank’s property. There’s a nice breeze and several birds are singing merrily in the treetops. I wish I could sit here a while, as I sometimes do, but I’m in charge of the bar, and even though mid-afternoon customers are rare, I need to tend to my duties, so after enjoying the breeze and birdsong for a couple of minutes, I head back inside.

    Around two-fifteen a couple of construction workers enter, and request grilled cheese sandwiches, fries and beer for lunch. They sit at the bar,  which relieves me of busing a table when they leave. By the time Ivy sets their orders in the pick-up window, they’re ready for their second beer, and as I set the beers on the bar, one of them asks, “Where’s Hank?”
    “His mother-in-law is sick and he and Wanda are at her house. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
    “Tell him we hope she recovers quickly,” the man replies, and starts eating his lunch. The other man nods his best wishes as he takes a bite of his sandwich.
    I leave them to their lunch and check the order of bar items. I’ve not used a lot of  glassware, just several coffee cups, some water glasses, and the two shot glasses, so it doesn’t take me long to get things back in the order Hank had it when he closed Saturday night.
    It’s around three when the construction workers finish their lunch. I tell them how much they owe, give them their change and thank them for the tip, then watch them walk to the door and out into the sunshine. I take their plates to the kitchen, then return to the bar and wipe it clean. That took all of three minutes. 
    I’ve not been at work this early in the day, nor needed to be here the entire time Hank’s Hideout is open. I’ve done a little less than I expected I’d need to do, so I’m getting antsy – maybe bored is a better word. Even though I know there will be a few people drifting in for an early supper in a half hour or so, I’m wishing I knew of something to do that looked like I was working. I had asked Ivy if she needed any help when I took the plates from the construction workers’ lunches to the kitchen and she said she had everything under control – and I’m sure she does. 
    I walk through the dining area, and everything is in readiness for the supper crowd, so there is nothing to do about my boredom except wait for customers to arrive.

    A few minutes later, two couples come in. I greet them, telling them to sit wherever they like. I get their drink orders while they peruse the menu – two coffees, water with lemon, and a bottle Corona.
    Just as I set the customers’ meals on the table, Leroy returns. He sits at the bar and I open and set a Bud in front of him. He nods his thanks and takes a long drink before setting the bottle down on the bar.
    I consider asking him what he’s done today, then decide it’s probably better if I don’t. I know nothing about him other than his first name, what beer he drinks and that he rides a Harley. And I have no idea what he’d think if I did ask him anything that didn’t concern me doing my job. Instead of questions, I hand Leroy the TV remote; he clicks the TV on and tunes in a ballgame
    I pretend to be busy, at least as busy as one can pretend to be when all the chores are done and one is simply waiting for customers to finish their meals or to arrive.

 
    About the time I’m ready to start biting my nails, two young men enter Hank’s Hideout and sit at the bar. They both order Heinekens and, because of their apparent youth, I ask to see their I.D.’s. One of them makes a snide comment about a “dive“ not needing to follow the rules. Before I can reply, Leroy turns to them and quietly tells them that if they can’t respect a lady, the door works both ways.
    The young man starts to argue, but after he takes a good look at Leroy, he gets off his barstool, pulls his buddy off his, and they make a hasty exit.
    When I look at Leroy after watching them leave, he is calmly sipping his beer as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
    Unsure about what to do or say about the incident, I carefully wipe the already clean bar, and wish Hank was here.

    Before I get any more perturbed, customers begin to drift in, and I see that Monday nights are a little busier at the bar than Hank indicated. Even though I rely on Hank setting cups of coffee and drinks of all sorts on the bar for me to deliver to customers, it hadn’t dawned on me just how many of those he does set on the bar during a night. Nor do I have to tend to the cash register, as Hank handles that also. At least tonight the alcohol orders are beer (Thank goodness Hank stocks only bottled beer.) or shots, so I don’t have to mix any drinks.
    I keep food orders delivered to the tables, and emptied dishes returned to the kitchen. The supper crowd comes and goes in a steady stream, but not at an overwhelming rate. By seven-thirty, the stream of customers is slowing considerably, and I think I’ve handled the bar and dining area fairly well by myself. By a few minutes after eight, only two tables are occupied.
    As no other customers appear by the time the people at those tables finish their meals, pay their tabs and leave, I decide to have something to eat myself. As I pass the bar, carrying a few dishes to the kitchen, I ask Leroy if he wants anything. A “not right now” is his reply, so I order sweet potato fries for myself and return to the dining area to wipe down the tables and sweep up what few crumbs are on the floor. 
    I finish just as Tommy, the evening grill cook, sets my fries in the pick-up window. I move them to the bar, get a Pepsi from the fountain, and nibble on a fry, deciding whether or not to sit down for a few minutes. My aching feet tell me that the stool behind the bar is a good idea, so I pull it out and sit down. 
    Leroy turns his attention from the TV to me. “Tired?” he asks.
    “My feet are complaining,” I tell him, then realize that he has actually started a conversation with me. Now what? 
    ‘Now what’ is Leroy returning his attention to the TV after he gives me a  nod. I eat fries and sip Pepsi, while keeping watch on the door, and avoiding looking at Leroy as often as I’d like.
    When the fries are about half gone, three men enter and I leave my seat, greet them and take their drink orders – coffee all around. They have decided on deluxe cheeseburgers by the time I set their coffees on the table, so I relay their requests to Tommy.
    When I return to the bar to finish my fries, the plate is empty. I look at Leroy, the only suspect. He is watching a baseball game on TV, his fingers barely touching the bottle of beer in front of him. It’s nearly empty, so I pretend not to notice the missing fries, point to the beer and ask, “Want another?”
    He shakes his head without taking his attention away from the TV, so I turn my attention to the bar area. As nothing besides the coffeepot needs any attention, I start a new pot brewing. Tommy sets the cheeseburgers in the pick-up window a couple of minutes later and I deliver them to the customers. One gentleman requests extra dill pickles and I go to the kitchen for them. When I return to the table, another man has joined them, and he requests “what they’re having.” I give Tommy the new order, then deliver coffee and creamer to the customers’ table. They don’t request anything else, so I return to the bar and sit down, to the relief of my aching feet; I’m glad I don’t have to do this every day!
    Leroy’s attention is still on the TV and I don’t interrupt him. I sit down to wait on the additional cheeseburger to appear, and it soon does. I deliver it to the table, taking the coffeepot with me, and top off the cups of coffee. No one requires anything else, so I return to the bar and once again take mercy on my feet by sitting down. Leroy is still watching the ballgame.

    The four gentlemen finish their cheeseburgers and coffees in a timely fashion, and after I check them out and clear their table, the bar and dining area are empty except for Leroy and me. I’m used to Monday nights slowing down by this time, with only a dozen or so customers between nine and midnight.  However, I am wondering how to deal with Leroy. I want to talk to him, but have no idea how to start a conversation. Even the weather is out as a topic for it’s been another beautiful summer day that everyone has enjoyed. Tommy brings out his supper of grilled chicken salad and sits at the bar to eat. And doesn’t attempt to start a conversation with Leroy.
    The regular Monday night beer drinkers drift in and out, one of them requesting a grilled cheese sandwich which he eats at the bar. Two men want shots of Maker’s. At eleven-fifteen I start preparing to shut down for the night. I sweep the dining area, wipe down the tables, straighten the chairs around the tables, and turn off the lights there. I straighten things at the bar, empty the coffeepot and wash it, and go into the kitchen to see if Tommy has everything in order there for the night – he does, and has already clocked out. I lock the back door and turn off the kitchen lights. 
    When I return to the bar area, Leroy is still there. I ask if he wants another Bud and he tells me he’s good for the night. I pick up the remote, turn off the TV, and check to make sure all is in place behind the bar. When I look up, Leroy is gone but I don’t hear his Harley rumbling.
    I figure he’s not had time to start it, so turn off the lights over the bar, walk to the front door, and flip the switches for beer signs and the ‘Open’ sign to Off. I take a final look back into Hank’s Hideout. The one light near the cash register is still on, as Hank prefers, so I open the door, step outside and lock the door.
    I turn to start the quarter-mile walk to my house and see Leroy leaned against his Harley. I’m not sure what to make of that as he’s never been waiting before.
    “I figured you were nearly home by now,” I say, not adding that I have no idea if he even has a home.
    He smiles. Thought I’d walk you home.”
    I freeze. Hank’s not here, and I’ve suspected a few times that he’s driven by my house on his way home, even though it’s out of his way. And I know way too little about Leroy. Has he waited for a chance like this?
    “Um. That’s not necessary,” I manage to say. “It’s not that far.”
    “I know. I make sure you get home okay at night.”
    Now I do begin to worry. Is he a stalker? Hank’s ‘be careful’ comes to mind. Was he aware of Leroy’s activities?
    “Um. That’s nice of you, but not necessary. I’ve done this for years.” Okay, only three, but no one has ever bothered me.
    He stands up and stretches. “Come on. I’ll walk back for my bike.”
    All I can do is join him.

    As we begin our walk, I decide to bite the bullet and question him. “What kind of work do you do”
    “None at this time,” he replies.
    “Must be nice,” I say, not exactly sounding cordial.
    “Don’t need to anymore. I developed a program for police to use in their investigations. It makes it easier for them to acquire information on similar crimes. Speeds up their paperwork so they can get back to the streets quicker. It’s even helped catch two serial killers no one suspected.”
    “Sounds complicated,” I say.
    “Writing the program was, ” he says. “Using it isn’t. That’s what makes it so useful.”

    When we arrive at my house, I stop at the end of the front walk, and turn to face Leroy as I pull my keys out of my pocket.
    “Well, this is home,” I say, then feel silly as he already knows where I live. “Thank you for walking me home.”
    Before I can step onto the walk, Leroy says, “Wait a minute,” and puts his hand on my shoulder. I am once again aware of the warmth of his hand.
    I look up at him, and he leans down and lightly kisses me.
    “I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time I set foot in Hank’s Hideout.” He straightens back up, looks at me for a second, then says, “Hell! I’ve been wanting to do this . . .”
    He pulls me into his arms and kisses me with an intensity I did not expect. I feel the warmth of his body against mine, and know I will always crave that warmth.