Chapter 2 - The Shortage at Table Twelve
"Good evening, sir," Leo said, his voice soft, steady, and completely devoid of the judgment radiating from the rest of the dining room. "Welcome to The Copper Kettle. Let’s get you something warm to drink first, before we even look at the menu."
The old man slowly lifted his head. Up close, his face was a map of deep, weathered wrinkles, carved by decades of sun and heavy labor. His eyes, however, were strikingly sharp—a piercing, intelligent shade of slate-blue that seemed to take in every detail of Leo’s face with unsettling precision.
"Thank you, son," the old man rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across concrete. "The wind... it cuts right through you tonight."
"I know the feeling," Leo smiled gently, setting the heavy glass of ice water down alongside a steaming mug of black coffee he had fetched from the service station on his way over. "On the house. Take your time looking things over. No rush at all."
The stranger looked down at the steaming mug, his raw fingers wrapping around the ceramic warmth as if absorbing life back into his frozen limbs. He opened the laminated menu, squinting through thick, wire-rimmed glasses held together at the bridge with a small piece of clear tape.
Ten minutes later, after clearing a round of appetizers from table four, Leo returned to take the old man’s order.
"I’ll have the slow-roasted beef brisket," the stranger said quietly, pointing a trembling finger at the menu item. "With mashed potatoes and gravy."
"An excellent choice," Leo nodded, pulling out his order pad. "It’s our house special tonight."
An hour passed. The kitchen rushed to close down their stations as the clock crept toward ten. The old man ate slowly, savoring every bite of the hot meal, his shoulders gradually relaxing beneath the heavy, waterlogged wool of his coat. When Leo finally dropped the leather check folder onto the table, the restaurant was nearly empty, save for two lingering couples near the bar.
The stranger opened the folder. A piece of white paper receipt fluttered slightly under the air-conditioning vent. Total: $24.50, including tax.
The old man reached into the deep pocket of his frayed trousers and pulled out a handful of crumpled currency and loose change. He lined the bills and coins neatly across the tabletop, smoothing out a wrinkled one-dollar bill with extreme care.
Leo watched from three feet away, quietly tallying the pile in his head.
Five dollars. Three crumpled ones. A handful of nickels and dimes.
Total: Nine dollars and fifteen cents.
The old man’s hands began to shake more violently. He turned his pockets inside out, revealing nothing but lint and a small, silver pocket watch with a cracked glass face. He looked up at Leo, his slate-blue eyes swimming with sudden, profound humiliation.
"I... I thought I had more," the old man whispered, his voice cracking. "I must have dropped my secondary pouch down at the rail yards when the wind caught me. I'm... I'm so sorry, son. I can leave my bag here as collateral. I'll walk back to the district tomorrow and bring you the rest—"
"Hey, don't worry about it," Leo interrupted immediately, his tone light and reassuring. He didn't want the man to feel another ounce of shame. "Registers get jammed all the time. It’s no big deal."
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Without missing a beat, Leo reached into his own back pocket, pulled out his worn leather wallet, and extracted a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his hard-earned tips. He laid it neatly across the check folder, covering the stranger's nine dollars and fifteen cents.
"Keep your money for the bus ride home," Leo smiled gently. "I've got the rest covered."
