broker-in-charge, who happened to be afflicted with an enlarged prostate, and they brutally made fun of him each and everytime he left the table to find a urinal. Morgan discovered that another couple of regulars, retirees in the design and printing business, had two grandsons in prison for arson, twins. He found out that a professional women’s group of stock market investors were gleaning insider information from one of their members who owned a commercial cleaning business and had after-hours access to professional office buildings. And of course, there were the romantic dinners where futures were planned and dreams discussed. For those who’d already spent a great deal of their lives together, Morgan detected an intimate and overriding familiarity marred by the occasional fight. And gossip about others. Lots of gossip about neighbors, friends, co-workers.
Argo’s drew its share of visitors, too, and there was always the random tourist group from Ohio, West Virginia, or a province in Canada who got lucky enough to score a seat at the Green Table because of a last minute cancellation. Morgan didn’t find their conversations as tantalizing as those of the regulars, but still, cheesecake was cheesecake. Decadent calories for the mind.
Transients always brought a unique set of dilemmas to the Green Table: which attractions were worth the money, how they hated the thought of going back to work, in-laws and family issues, and guilt about spending so much money on vacation. Inevitably, their conversation always turned to food. The incredible food they were currently spooning into their gullets, a rehash of the food they’d eaten last night, and a discussion over where they might have dinner tomorrow.
Yes, Morgan thought, tourist conversations are usually predictable, and he was glad that the Green Table usually played host only to local VIPs. The current table’s occupants weren’t VIPs, however. They were parents of an employee. Just ordinary locals, one of whom was bitching instead of enjoying the food. He categorized their conversation as cheesecake of the key lime variety: bittersweet with an overriding aftertaste of sour.
The woman sitting at the Green Table lowered her voice, and Morgan automatically adjusted the volume of his earbud. “I don’t care if this is Argo’s,” she said to her husband. They were the parents of a college student who worked in the kitchen, a kid named Brent who had given them an Argo’s gift certificate for their wedding anniversary. “He’s a glorified busboy, for goodness’ sake. He should be doing something to get ready for a real career, something he can make a living at. Something he can list on a résumé.”
Morgan watched the monitor and saw the man pat the woman’s forearm. “Brent still has a year of college, Helen. A lot of kids his age work at restaurants. You should be glad that he has a job.”
“Beth Plowden’s son is a year younger than Brent and he’s working an internship at the television station. A paid internship.” The woman paused to chew a bite of food. “Even Laura’s boy has a good job. He earns enough money to pay for his own apartment.”
The soothing tone of the man’s voice told Morgan that such conversations between husband and wife were commonplace. “If you want Brent out of the house, we can set him up in an apartment near the campus.”
“That’s not the point! I just… I just wish he had a little ambition. I wish he was more like his older brother.”
“Honey, Brent is a great kid and I think we should enjoy this wonderful meal, which, by the way, is thanks to him. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she said. “But I doubt Brent actually
paid
for the gift card. I’m sure he got it free since he works here.”
Disgusted at her attitude, Morgan abruptly stood, almost knocking over his desk chair. The woman was like a female version of Garland, he thought. She didn’t recognize her son’s abilities and talents. She was
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