The Pride Trilogy: Kyle Callahan 1-3 by Mark McNease

Combined with the pink cat-eye glasses it made for quite a look.
    “Where you boys from?” Maggie said, un-holstering her smart phone and setting it on the table as she sat down.
    “New York City,” Danny said. “How about you?
    The women were seated now and Elzbetta, on duty for lunch and dinner, hurried over with two more menus. Elzbetta had the appearance of a young woman who never expected to work where appearances mattered: twenty-eight years old, mid-length yellow hair (for it could not be called blonde) with purple streaks in it, five tiny gold hoops rimming her left ear, a nose stud, and all black clothing: black jeans, black shirt, black shoes.
    “I’m Elzbetta,” she said to the table, “and I’ll be your server today. Probably every day you’re here, unless you stay past Sunday. I don’t work Monday or Tuesday, in case you were wondering, which I doubt. And no, it’s not a nickname for Elizabeth. It’d old-country, Slavic or something. You’d have to ask my mother which old-country, but she’s dead and never did tell me. Drinks for anyone? Bar doesn’t open ‘til two.”
    The four looked at each other, wondering as much about the overload of information from their waitress as they were about what to order.
    “Tomato juice please, Elzbetta,” answered Eileen, putting just a slight emphasis on the name. “With ice.”
    Maggie said water was fine, while Kyle and Danny both asked for coffee. Elzbetta turned on her heel and hurried off, writing the drinks down on her order pad.
    “Philly,” Eileen said, turning to Danny as if there had been no interruption.
    “Now we are,” Maggie added, sounding none too happy about it.
    “Maggie’s from a small town in western PA,” Eileen explained. “She thinks Philly is the big city. Which it is, but c’mon, New York City? I can’t get her to go there with me and we’ve been together for thirteen years. She’s convinced we wouldn’t get out alive. And the subways? Like being buried alive, she says, as if she’d know. I miss the Big Apple.”
    “Does anyone still call it that?” Kyle mused, starting to warm to their company.
    “Not for a while, I don’t think,” Danny said. “It was part of an advertising campaign, like those ‘I Love NY’ coffee cups with the heart on them. Back in the 70s or 80s when the place was going to hell.”
    “Well,” said Eileen, “Maggie thinks it went to hell and stayed there. I told her it’s run by Disney now but she won’t believe me.”
    “What’d you think of that dead guy?” Maggie blurted, abruptly changing the subject. Either she didn’t like her phobias being put on display or she had very poor social skills. “There hasn’t been anything on the news about it.” At that she glanced at her phone, as if news of any importance would set it vibrating.
    “Who’s going to report it?” asked Eileen. “It was six hours ago.”
    “To answer your question,” Kyle said, “I knew the dead man. He worked here for many years and was a friend of mine, at least the last year or so.”
    “My mother was an alcoholic,” Maggie said. “No good comes of it.”
    Kyle was wondering what made Maggie think Teddy was an alcoholic and why she would offer up such personal information, when Elzbetta arrived back with their drinks.
    The now-foursome placed their lunch orders and continued with their conversation, the rest of it light, about the unseasonably warm weather and the pleasures Philadelphia had to offer, since it was the only place all four of them were familiar with. They watched as the restaurant started filling up with guests from the night before and new arrivals. Much to Danny’s displeasure, Linus Hern swept into the room halfway through their meal, deliberately talking loudly so no one would miss his entrance. He had a young man in tow—not the same one he’d come with last year—and only two acolytes this time, fawning over Hern and glancing around to be sure they were looked at.
    Linus