Grantville Gazette, Volume 7

  Angie came down the stairs and walked over and talked to the two other waitresses. Julio was in the back with Odetta and the new cook.

  Fenton watched as Angie lifted the bar locking the entrance door and opened it. The first customers through the door were sailors. Fenton recognized the one who grabbed Angie and put a lip lock on her. It was the same one she had been seeing for the last month. Maybe the girl was going to finally settle down. Better the stupid sailor than him, though. Tigers don't change their stripes and he was sure Angie wouldn't.

  More customers started filing in. It looked like they might have a success, not that he hadn't known they would all along.

  As the evening wore on, things were going pretty well until some Marines entered. From that point on, things deteriorated rapidly. It wasn't the Marines who caused the problems. The trouble was started by some sailors who had already had a few too many.

  Fenton grabbed his baseball bat from under the bar and waded into the fray. He didn't even get a chance to bust heads. Some tough looking characters moved in and the fight was over.

  Fenton listened while one of the tough guys said, "No trouble or the Military Police will be in here and put the place off limits." Fenton hadn't thought of that possibility. Off Limits? Something like that would ruin them for sure.

  "Thanks."

  "Think nothing of it," the man said. "Besides, I think I'm gonna like this place. I'll come around when I'm not busy."

  Fenton returned to the bar. His assistant had been running his butt off, trying to keep the beer flowing. There had even been a few orders for the Revenoo-ers Rue he'd brought from Grantville.

  Serving liquor had been another problem handled by Scheister. The man actually had an interest in the Greasy Spoon now in lieu of fees. It gave them a mouthpiece on call, but it had also cost them a twenty percent interest. Scheister was really a shyster.

  * * *

  All night long, Julio had been trying to get Christian Grosch to work the skillets of fries. The man refused to do it. He would work the meat grinders, even clean them. Grosch would fry hamburgers or prepare sausages, anything to do with meat; but he refused to touch a vegetable one!

  "I'm a journeyman butcher," Grosch complained. "It's bad enough I must prepare the meat as well as do my proper job. I'll not peel your potatoes, cut them up, or prepare them."

  In a whining voice he added, "If only my guild master hadn't recommended me for this job."

  Julio wanted to strangle the young man. It had cost him a pretty penny to get the Butchers' Guild off his back. He'd been saddled with hiring a journeyman as part of the deal Valentin had brokered.

  He had learned more about operating a business than he had ever thought existed. And he was also sure there were things he'd missed. But he was confident that nothing could go wrong.

  The Greasy Spoon, Two Weeks Later

  "See?" Odetta waved the ledger in front of Julio, Fenton, and Angie. "See what I've been trying to tell you all morning. Yes, The Greasy Spoon is making money! But, we're spending money not just for the supplies of which we are going through a lot, but look!" She pointed to a line in the ledger. "Fenton has made personal withdrawals three times, Angie twice, and Julio once. That doesn't count the cash withdrawal I made. We're in the red after our employees salaries, supplies, and Scheister's twenty percent of the gross." Odetta glared at the others. "And whose great idea was it to give Scheister a twenty percent interest and pay him from gross profits?"

  She watched as Julio swallowed.

  "Aha! I thought so. At this rate, we'll end up in debtors' prison—if Magdeburg has one."

  The first meeting they'd had since the Greasy Spoon had opened wasn't going to be a good one. Odetta knew if something didn't turn around soon, they would be in the shit neck deep. The Greasy Spoon had customers; but as a business it was already sinking.

  "I have an idea," Fenton began. Odetta picked up the cup of Willie Ray's finest next to her and took a drink.

  Another Two Weeks

  Julio finally knew they were beaten. Two weeks ago, they had made a deal with Georg Knaust. He provided the money to pay the rent for the next two months and salaries for the employees while things got straightened out.

  Georg had taken a thirty percent interest in the Greasy Spoon.

  Things had started to look good until now. They received a tax notice today that nearly brought on heart attacks. It was time to talk to Scheister again.

  But first Julio would have to call everyone together. Their business venture wasn't going to work. It wasn't because everyone hadn't been doing their part, and then some. They'd all worked hard. But they just weren't business people.

  The Greasy Spoon was popular, it pulled in money, but they just couldn't seem to make it work. The employees were trained. After he had threatened to march Grosch back to the guild request a replacement, even that jerk had straightened out and became a model employee in the kitchen.

  Angie was showing pride in herself and staying with the same guy, as far as he could tell—a vast improvement. She had even begun dressing more conservatively. She wasn't a walking billboard for 'free love' any more. He was proud of her, as proud as was possible at this time.

  But he could see the writing on the wall. They were not going to succeed.

  One Day Later, Scheister's Office

  Six people were crammed into the small room Valentin Scheister used for his office.

  "I've drawn up the paper work," Valentin said. "All it needs is my signature, Herr Knaust's signature, Herr Sanabria's, and Herr Mase's signature to make it legal."

  Julio studied the document before he picked the quill up from the desktop. He dipped it into the ink and awkwardly scrawled his name on the bottom of the document.

  Fenton muttered under his breath before taking the quill from his hand and signing.

  Georg and Valentin had agreed to take over the Greasy Spoon; however, there were a few stipulations they'd all had to agree on. First, the name was to be changed to the American Greasy Spoon, even though it was owned and operated by down-timers. Second, the up-timers all stayed on for awhile longer. That had made Odetta and Angie happy.

  Their time in Magdeburg had been a lesson for them. While they might not be the new owners of the Burger King or McDonald's of the USE, they did function well as a team. They just didn't do it in the restaurant/tavern industry. They didn't have great heads for business.

  One thing they were extremely good at was playing music. They had gained a lot of confidence over the past few months. They no longer worried about what they were going to do.

  They had a new plan. They were going to run the American Greasy Spoon for Valentine and Georg. They would also provide entertainment. They would form a band called Greener Pastures. One day they would leave Magdeburg. If they could please the customers at the Spoon, they stood a good chance wherever they went.

  Julio watched Odetta move toward Georg as the big German took the quill to add his signature. Maybe it would be better if they stayed around Magdeburg for awhile. They might even learn how the German guilds worked.

  He watched as the lawyer added his signature. The deal was done.

  "That seals the contract." Valentin chuckled as he returned the quill to the table. "I'm glad you chose to stay. It will add an American touch to the American Greasy Spoon."

  Julio momentarily felt like the main attraction at a zoo. He smiled to himself. He had better get used to being watched if he planned to play his gitbox on stage. They wouldn't be returning to Grantville any time soon. Staying would give Odetta and Angie a chance to make decisions about their romantic conquests. Now they didn't have to say good bye to friends and, in some cases, loved ones.

  It was time for them to try their hand at something new. This time, he didn't just think they would succeed; this time he knew they would.

  Grantville's Greatest Philosopher?

  By Terry Howard

  Ken looked up when the door opened. When he saw the men who were
entering, he moved down to the cash register. Once there, he put his hand on the sawed-off shotgun that hung in a rack on the underside of the bar. "Julio," he called.

  "Yeah?" Julio Mora replied.

  "Nine one one, now!"

  "On it." Julio left the sink of dirty dishes and headed for the phone in the back room.

  Three men walked through the door. Each was well dressed, one more so than the others. They were armed but that was common enough. Two of them had that air of 'trouble on a short leash.' Muscle, Ken thought. Bodyguards, competent, deadly, dangerous. They were also down-timers. Under the big "Club 250" sign on the door a little sign read "No Dogs and No germans Allowed." All down-timers were "Krauts" as far as the denizens of Ken's bar were concerned.

  If it had been a bit later in the day Ken would have told them to get out, knowing there was enough firepower at hand to make it stick. It was, after all, that kind of bar. At this hour, though, the "I want a drink for lunch crowd" was mostly gone. There were only three patrons left. Ken knew they were nothing but three more targets. It was time to stall and pray that the police came quickly, so Ken waited nervously for the down-timers to speak first.

  After standing inside the door for half a minute the trio consulted briefly and one of the guards spoke in fairly understandable English. "We have read the sign."

  Uh oh Ken thought.

  "We are not staying," the guard said.

  Relief swept through the owner of the bar. Ken had never killed anyone in the bar and didn't want to start now. For that matter he had never been killed and sure didn't want to start that now, either.

  "We were told that the great philosopher, Herr Head, always had lunch here."

  James Richard Shaver, Jimmy Dick, often referred to behind his back as Dick Head, a name he richly deserved for being a jerk of the first water, actually managed to blush. Ken, from long practice, managed to swallow his laughter completely. Some of his patrons were a mite touchy, especially when they were drunk.

  "Herr Krieger wishes to converse with him," the guard continued. "It need not be here, where we are not allowed. Over dinner tonight, at the newly opened salon, perhaps?"

  Ken let out the breath he was holding and took his moist hand off the shotgun. The tension flowed out of his muscles and evaporated without leaving any residue on the floor. Politely, he answered the trio with complete honesty. "There is no one here right now who answers to the name Herr Head. Can I ask who sent you?"

  "We sought the gathering place of the local philosophical society at the . . ." The guard did not quite pause, "'front counter', where we took lodgings. We were directed to the . . ." This time he did pause while he wrapped his tongue around a more difficult, recently learned, word phrase, "'Police Station.' They directed us to the . . ." Again a new word. "'Post office.' There we were told that the only fulltime, practicing philosopher in town was Herr, excuse me, Mister Head, and he could be found here having lunch, since there was no longer a Cracker-barrel in town."

  "Did the post office say Mister Head or dickhead?" Ken inquired.

  "Yes, Dick Head is the name we were given."

  The other two patrons snickered and James blushed again.

  "Where are you staying?" Ken asked. "If Herr Head comes in today, I'll give him the message. And then, if the greatest of Grantville's philosophers wishes to talk to you, he can send a disciple to make arrangements."

  All the while Ken spoke, Jimmy Dick was thinking hard. He was never going to live this down. He knew it. People who hadn't spoken to him in years, if ever, would hail him on the streets of Grantville at the slightest of excuse, just to have the opportunity of addressing him as "Herr Head." The more polite of them would seek the opinion of Grantville's greatest philosopher. Small towns can be quite cruel that way.

  It was almost a relief when the door opened and two cops walked in.

  "Is there a problem, Mister Beasley?" one of them asked.

  "No. No problem at all. These gentlemen were just leaving."

  One cop looked at the other and tilted his head slightly towards the door. The second nodded ever more slightly. Then Hans, the down-time cop, went out with the three strangers to make sure they didn't have any complaints that should be addressed.

  Lyndon approached the bar. When he reached the cash register he asked, "What happened, Ken?" Officer Johnson was probably the only cop that ever addressed Ken Beasley by his first name. He once briefly dated Ken's step-daughter, and Ken still thought well of him.

  "Sorry about that, Lyndon," Ken said. "When three armed Krauts came through the door looking dangerous, I thought I had a problem. Turns out someone down at the post office sent them here on a wild goose chase; just to get rid of them, I suspect."

  Lyndon worked so hard to swallow his laughter that he almost choked on it. "Sorry about that, Ken," Lyndon apologized. "I guess that's our fault. When the three wise men came wandering into the station looking for our philosophers so they could commune with them, the person behind the desk tried to explain that we didn't have any. She finally got rid of them by sending them to the Post Office. After all, they have everybody's address. Well, someone thought it was funny, I guess, to let them chase their tails all over town and called the post office and suggested Jimmy Dick."

  "Thanks a hell of a lot!" James added from the sidelines.

  Lyndon continued. "If the post office had given them his home address they never would have come here."

  "Hey?" Jimmy Dick called out. "Hello." He waved his hand in a big "bring on the train" wave. "I'm down here. If you can't talk to me, you could at least not talk about me as if I ain't here, damn it."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, Jimmy," Lyndon said. "When I didn't see you talking to them I figured you weren't here."

  "Why the hell should I talk to them? And why was it funny to give them my name?" James demanded. Then before that could be answered, if indeed it could be, he also asked, "And just who do I thank for that anyway? And why would I want them poking around my house?"

  Lyndon started to answer the first or second question and then bit his tongue. He didn't answer the third question either but he did reply to it. "Jeez, Jimmy, I'm not sure who made that call."

  * * *

  In truth, Lyndon knew exactly who made the call. He knew it had been discussed for almost three minutes and everybody in the office, including the chief, knew about it and thought it was funny.

  The conversation started out with someone suggesting that they call the post office and have them send the three wise men down to the stables to look for Don.

  "Don who?" someone asked.

  "Donald Duck," someone else suggested.

  "That would do, but I was thinking of Ma Quixote's oldest boy."

  The people in the room had chuckled. Then someone had showed his age by saying, "If they want philosophy, we should send them to Ma and Pa Kettle."

  "Who's that?" At least two people asked.

  As he tried to explain who Ma and Pa Kettle were and then what a cracker-barrel philosopher was, the name Dick Head came up.

  The truth was that they were, perhaps, just a little embarrassed that they did not have a Philosophical Society in town nor did they have anybody they considered a philosopher. So they sought to hide the embarrassment in humor. Pain turned inward is depression. Pain turned outward is anger. Pain turned sideways is humor. All three can be destructive.

  * * *

  "If there's no problem I'd better get back to work," Lyndon said. Ken noticed he hadn't answered the fourth question, either.

  The other two patrons were out the door behind him before it shut all the way. The closing of the door seemed to trigger a wave of laughter.

  "Ken, bring me a bottle of whatever you're calling whiskey these days," Jimmy Dick said. "That story is all over town by now. Looks like I'll be doing my drinking at home for a good long while."

  "Shoot, Jimmy. That won't help and you know it. The only thing you can do is make it your joke on the Krauts and ride it out."

/>   James picked up his beer and took a long slow sip and thought for a minute. You can't talk while you're drinking and you can't talk while you're thinking. Or is it you can't think while you're talking? James mind went back to junior high school. If someone insulted you it was best to turn it back on them; it was almost as good if you could turn it on someone else, then you were doing the laughing instead of being laughed at.

  "Oh, come on, Jimmy," Ken said, "why do you think I told them you'd have a disciple come to their hotel? You can have the whole town laughin' at you or you can have the town laughin' at them."