Serious Moonlight(24)

“How did you get here?” I asked.

“I drove.” His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, elbows locked. Head buried in his hoodie. I could see only snatches of his face as he talked. “I don’t park my car in the hotel garage. My mom is friends with someone who works for Diamond Parking, so I get a free reserved space at the garage behind . . . well, you know. Where we went before.”

“Oh,” I said, hoping he didn’t hear the creak in my voice. “Uh, I thought employee parking was free at the hotel.”

“It is, but if you’d seen the things I’d seen down there—rats, roaches. The constant threat of raw sewage. Oh, and not to mention that the part of the garage where they make us park is a safety hazard. A support is damaged. One day an earthquake’s going to hit and the whole thing will cave in.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m not taking a chance. Plus, it smells like piss under there.”

“Doesn’t half of downtown?”

He laughed. “You are not wrong, Birdie. Old piss and seagull shit. Eau de Seattle.”

An ambulance blared in the distance as we crossed the street and headed toward the diner’s neon moon. Through the windows, the Moonlight didn’t look busy exactly, but it wasn’t empty, either. Daniel reached over my shoulder to get the door, holding it open for me, and then we stepped inside.

Old Motown music played on the jukebox in the corner as I quickly scanned the restaurant. Two cops sat at the counter, drinking coffee. A couple who looked as if they were on the verge of a hangover scarfed down pancakes in a booth in the corner. Three other tables were occupied, and I could see the cook in a cloud of steam beyond the pass-through window, where a single order slip hung from a clip. No one I knew was working this morning.

“Hey, our booth is open,” Daniel said, tugging his hood off. Static electricity made his glossy black hair stick to his jacket until he freed it and pulled it around his shoulder.

Our booth? That was my booth.

He looked at my face and tugged his ear absently. “Places like this with a lot of background noise and terrible acoustics make it harder for me to hear. Everything gets jumbled, especially at tables out in the open. I’d rather sit at a booth where it’s more private. Is that cool?”

I nodded and slid into one side, then stuck my nose in a menu that had been propped between the window and a napkin holder. A few seconds into my browsing, Daniel’s finger hooked around the top of my menu. He pulled it down slowly until he could see my face. “You know what you should have?”

“Endless hash browns?” They were the cheapest and best thing here.

“And pie.”

I made a face. “It’s not even five in the morning.”

“Au contraire, mon ami,” Daniel said, slinging his arm onto the back of the vinyl seat. “It’s always pie time somewhere. And I’m not sure if you knew this, but this diner makes the best pie in the entire city.”

I did know that. It was my mom’s favorite. She ate Moonlight pie almost every day. The first time I came back here after she died and I moved to Bainbridge, I ate so many slices, I vomited in the restroom. I guess that’s why I’d never eaten it since. Sometimes it felt as if grief were a tightrope, and I spent half of my time trying to stay balanced; I never fell off, but I also never made it to the other side.

Daniel pointed to the Pie of the Day chalkboard and read aloud, “?‘PUT A BING ON IT, featuring a mixture of Bing and Rainier cherries, topped with brown-sugar crumble and a ring of caramel.’?” He kissed his fingers, chef-style. “Did you know they have a freakin’ commercial pie warmer behind the counter?”

I did. When I was a kid, I’d helped Ms. Patty fill it up on rainy days. She always said it was a sin to serve apple pie cold.

“Do it, Birdie,” he said. “I’m going to. Breakfast pie is the best pie. It’s GD terrific.”

“Am I ever going to live ‘GD’ down?” I mumbled.

“Never. I’m using it whenever possible. It’s goddamn adorable.”

A college-aged server walked up to our table and paused to look at us. “Oh, it’s you two again,” she said, sticking a pencil over her ear into strawberry-red dyed hair. Her name tag officially identified her as Shonda, but an added sticker above that read: CAP’N CRUNCH. “Gonna run out on me like last time?”

I wanted to melt into my seat and slide under the table.

Daniel just grinned at her. “Shonda, oh, Shonda. The Moonlight’s best server—nay! The best server in all of Seattle. You know that was just a mistake. Have I not been coming here for months? Am I not your favorite customer?”

“Anyone who tips me correctly is my favorite customer,” she deadpanned.

He laughed. “Okay, but last month was a mistake, and I paid up, remember?”

“I remember,” she said. “Lovers’ quarrels make people crazy, I suppose.”

“Nah. We’re just coworkers,” Daniel said quickly. “We aren’t assholes, promise,” he said, lifting his chin toward the Polaroids of Moonlight criminals.

She stared at him, one hand folded on her hip.

“Look. We’re good for it.” He pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, flattened it, and set it by his napkin. “I’ll have a slice of Put a Bing on It and coffee. Extra cream. Your tip will be the stuff of legends.”