Read Online Murder on a Hot Tin Roof by Amanda Matetsky - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Amanda Matetsky
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smell of fried fish was overpowering. The ceiling fans were going full speed, but their only effect was to move the hot, greasy air from one spot to another. As a result, the place was practically empty. Except for a skinny middle-aged man sitting at a table near the windows, and the hairy, husky man behind the food counter, and two sweaty young busboys in wilted white uniforms, Abby and I were the only ones there.
Abby headed straight for the food service area and grabbed a brown plastic tray from the stack at the end of the counter. Then she began to move down the food line, asking the husky server for a slab of this, and two scoops of that, and a heap of that stuff over there. You’d have thought she was a starving longshoreman, the way she was piling it on. When she finished making her selections, the mound of grub on her plate was as high as the Matterhorn.
The sights and smells at the food counter—particularly the slimy display of boiled beef and the repulsive odor rising from a pan of steamed trout—were making me nauseous. I took a small roll, a puny portion of the fruit salad Jell-O mold, and a glass of iced tea.
“Okay, out with it,” I said, as soon as we were seated at a front table near the row of large windows and the open doors. “Whatever gave you the yo-yo idea to come here looking for models? Are they running an agency in the kitchen?”
“No, silly,” Abby said, digging into her meatloaf and mashed. “Ith juth tha a lop of goop loofing ghys ang hout ear and—”
“Stop! I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Can’t you swallow before you speak?!” My patience was wearing a little thin.
Abby gulped and gave me a goofy grin. “Sorry, babe, but my mooseloaf is calling.” She took another bite and gobbled it down. Then she looked up and said, “What I was trying to tell you was that a lot of really good-looking guys hang out here at Stewart’s, and some of them are only too happy to do a little modeling for me. Sometimes they’ll even do it for free. And that’s a whole lot less than the twenty-five bucks an hour the agency charges. And that’s why I come here looking for models. Get what I mean, Jean?” She shoveled a fresh load of mashed potatoes into her mouth.
“No! I don’t get it at all. What’s so special about this crummy place? Why do good-looking guys like to hang out here ?”
Abby swallowed her spuds and widened her eyes in surprise. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?” I urged.
“About Stewart’s,” she said.
“What about Stewart’s?” I begged.
“I can’t believe you don’t know,” she said. “I thought everybody knew about Stewart’s.”
“Well, I don’t!” I shrieked. My patience wasn’t wearing thin anymore. It was officially worn-out.
“Shhhh! Keep your voice down. You’re making a scene.”
“You’re making me make a scene! And if you don’t tell me everything you know about this place right now, I’m going to jump on the table and hoot like a monkey!”
“Do monkeys hoot? I always thought of them as screechers, not—”
“Abby!!”
“Okay, okay!” she finally relented, leaning forward and lowering her voice to a whisper. “Here’s the dirt, Bert: Stew-art’s Cafeteria is known in these parts as Queer Central Station. You dig my meaning? It’s where all the fairies meet and greet. See the fellow sitting at that table over there, staring out the window? He’s probably a queer looking for company. And see the sidewalk right outside this row of windows? They call it the chicken run. That’s where all the chickens strut up and down and back and forth, flouncing their feathers and flexing their muscles, angling for potential . . . um . . . boyfriends. Or, in some cases, modeling jobs.”
“Chickens?”
“Yeah,”Abby said, smiling. “You never heard that term before? It’s what the older homosexuals call the younger, more attractive ones. The chickens are the handsomest, most
Abby headed straight for the food service area and grabbed a brown plastic tray from the stack at the end of the counter. Then she began to move down the food line, asking the husky server for a slab of this, and two scoops of that, and a heap of that stuff over there. You’d have thought she was a starving longshoreman, the way she was piling it on. When she finished making her selections, the mound of grub on her plate was as high as the Matterhorn.
The sights and smells at the food counter—particularly the slimy display of boiled beef and the repulsive odor rising from a pan of steamed trout—were making me nauseous. I took a small roll, a puny portion of the fruit salad Jell-O mold, and a glass of iced tea.
“Okay, out with it,” I said, as soon as we were seated at a front table near the row of large windows and the open doors. “Whatever gave you the yo-yo idea to come here looking for models? Are they running an agency in the kitchen?”
“No, silly,” Abby said, digging into her meatloaf and mashed. “Ith juth tha a lop of goop loofing ghys ang hout ear and—”
“Stop! I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Can’t you swallow before you speak?!” My patience was wearing a little thin.
Abby gulped and gave me a goofy grin. “Sorry, babe, but my mooseloaf is calling.” She took another bite and gobbled it down. Then she looked up and said, “What I was trying to tell you was that a lot of really good-looking guys hang out here at Stewart’s, and some of them are only too happy to do a little modeling for me. Sometimes they’ll even do it for free. And that’s a whole lot less than the twenty-five bucks an hour the agency charges. And that’s why I come here looking for models. Get what I mean, Jean?” She shoveled a fresh load of mashed potatoes into her mouth.
“No! I don’t get it at all. What’s so special about this crummy place? Why do good-looking guys like to hang out here ?”
Abby swallowed her spuds and widened her eyes in surprise. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Know what?” I urged.
“About Stewart’s,” she said.
“What about Stewart’s?” I begged.
“I can’t believe you don’t know,” she said. “I thought everybody knew about Stewart’s.”
“Well, I don’t!” I shrieked. My patience wasn’t wearing thin anymore. It was officially worn-out.
“Shhhh! Keep your voice down. You’re making a scene.”
“You’re making me make a scene! And if you don’t tell me everything you know about this place right now, I’m going to jump on the table and hoot like a monkey!”
“Do monkeys hoot? I always thought of them as screechers, not—”
“Abby!!”
“Okay, okay!” she finally relented, leaning forward and lowering her voice to a whisper. “Here’s the dirt, Bert: Stew-art’s Cafeteria is known in these parts as Queer Central Station. You dig my meaning? It’s where all the fairies meet and greet. See the fellow sitting at that table over there, staring out the window? He’s probably a queer looking for company. And see the sidewalk right outside this row of windows? They call it the chicken run. That’s where all the chickens strut up and down and back and forth, flouncing their feathers and flexing their muscles, angling for potential . . . um . . . boyfriends. Or, in some cases, modeling jobs.”
“Chickens?”
“Yeah,”Abby said, smiling. “You never heard that term before? It’s what the older homosexuals call the younger, more attractive ones. The chickens are the handsomest, most
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