“I can wait,” Cameron says, nodding at the pile. “I’m not really in a hurry.”
Red Beard turns back to him and says, “Nonsense. I’ll get Tanner in here.” Then, without missing a beat, he bellows, “Tanner!”
From somewhere in the maze of cramped, narrow aisles, a sullen teen, also wearing a green Shop-Way apron, materializes. He scuffles along behind them toward the front.
“Here y’are,” says Red Beard, flicking on the lights in the deli. Along with the tinge of bleach, there’s a used-food smell. Like pepper and onion. Hamburger Helper. It reminds him of his shitty old apartment, the one where he lived before moving in with Katie, where you could always tell what your neighbors were having for dinner from the hallway.
Tanner hands him a laminated sheaf.
“That’s the menu, there,” says Red Beard needlessly. “The lad will take your order once you’ve had a chance to look it over.”
Cameron scans the menu. It looks like someone’s dog, or maybe someone’s toddler, chewed off one of the corners. “I’m good with black coffee,” he says, even though his stomach is rumbling.
“Tanner, make him the special,” Red Beard commands, and before Cameron can object, the kid gives a dopey nod and lopes off. Somewhere, in the unseen kitchen, a pan clanks, equipment whirs to life. Red Beard leans over and confides, “Pastrami melt.”
What is it with pastrami? He hopes this one won’t be made of yams. “Okay,” Cameron agrees, hesitant.
“It’ll be on the house. Tanner’s a bit of a greenhorn. Been tryin’ to get him hours in the kitchen, but we don’t get many victims these days.” Red Beard grins, sliding onto the vinyl bench across from him, running a hand over his freckled bulb of a head. “Care for some company?”
Cameron shrugs.
“I always go the extra mile for out-of-towners. A proper welcome.” Red Beard winks.
“How’d you know?”
“I know everyone around here.” Red Beard chuckles. “Where ya from?”
“California.”
Red Beard lets out a low whistle. “California. Don’t tell me you’re one of those deep-pocket real estate wankers. You know, the flipper types.”
Cameron lets out a hollow laugh at the thought owning real estate. “Yeah, no. Just up here looking for . . . family.”
The guy tilts his bald head. “Aye? Thought maybe you looked familiar.”
Cameron perks up; why didn’t he think of this angle right away? Red Beard is probably in his sixties, so older than his dad would be, but not by more than a decade or so. And he’s the sort of annoying guy who knows anyone and everyone; he said so himself.
“Yeah,” Cameron says. “Looking for my dad, actually.”
“What’s his name?”
“Simon Brinks. You know him?”
Red Beard’s eyes widen at the name. “Not personally, no. Sorry.”
Thumping bass pulses from the kitchen, some song Cameron has heard a million times but couldn’t name. Is this part of being in your thirties? Out of touch with the music kids like? He’d noticed the crowd seemed weirdly old at the last Moth Sausage show. Had they become classic rock?
Well, they weren’t anything anymore.
Red Beard frowns at the sound. “I’ll tell him to turn that nonsense down.” He starts to rise.
Cameron holds up a hand, a wave of empathy for poor Tanner washing over him. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“You kids and this racket you call music!” Red Beard shakes his head.
“Well, I don’t think it’s so bad, and as the lead guitarist of Moth Sausage, I know music.” He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. What an idiotic thing to bring up.
“Moth Sausage? The actual Moth Sausage?”
“You’ve . . . heard of us?” Cameron gapes. Their last single barely had a hundred downloads, and they’d assumed these were all Dell’s regulars, but maybe Red Beard was one of them. Brad will shit himself when he hears that someone listens to Moth Sausage a thousand miles away. He’ll probably even beg Cameron to get the band back together.
Red Beard nods gravely. “I’m a huge fan.”
“Wow,” says Cameron, truly out of words for once.
“Aww, don’t make that face. Now I feel terrible.” Red Beard’s cheeks flush to match his beard. “I was just yankin’ your chain.”
“Ah,” Cameron says, cheeks flaming.