If Raymond Chandler Was A Condiment

Kenton arrived at the same time as the food. I’d taken the liberty of ordering for him as well- full english, minus the egg, and a cup of tea.

He took off his coat and sat down. “This for me?”

“That’s right.” As I added pepper to my scrambled eggs, he picked up a bottle of Raymond Chandler and squeezed it liberally over the plate.

“So what did you want to see me about?”

“It’s about the last job you did. The boss was very pleased.”

Kenton looked up from his plate. He had some Raymond Chandler smeared on his chin. “Is that all? You could have said that in a text.”

I pulled an envelope out of my pocket and slid it across the table. Kenton picked it up, getting a little Raymond Chandler on it in the process, and placed it between his coat and the back of the seat. “Same fee?” he asked as he resumed eating.

“It’s a little higher this time. Slightly more complex.” Kenton grunted but didn’t lookup.

There was nothing left for either of us to say, so we both continued with our breakfasts. I signalled for another coffee. It came just as Kenton finished eating.

“Well, can’t hang around here all day. I’ve got work to do.” He took a napkin from the dispenser and wiped the Raymond Chandler off his face, then stood up. As I sipped my coffee he pulled on his coat, then walked out with the envelope under his arm.

I pushed the plate of eggs aside. It was only half finished, but I wasn’t really hungry. I’d only ordered them as Kenton always gets irritable if he’s the only one eating. Says I always stare at him.

I paid for the food, then pulled on my own coat, and headed outside, feeling a little bloated from the unnecessary food.

Down these mean streets a man must eat who is not himself hungry…

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