‘So when was the last time you saw him?’
‘A couple of weeks ago? Three, maybe, I say. ‘Then I’ve gone around there this morning and there’s a note saying “RIP Danny” pinned to the door by a massive great knife.’
‘What sort of knife?’
‘I dunno. A sharp one? Kitchen knife? Does it matter?’
‘Suppose not. RIP. That’s original.’ As Mark Baxter says this a waitress arrives behind him, slides a plate onto the table with a towering burger on it, about an inch of beef, fries scattered around the side. Onion rings. A tiny American flag pierces the bun, as if it has been conquered.
‘Short and to the point,’ I say. I lift my bottle of Bud to make way for my plate, smile at the waitress, who smiles back, chews her gum a couple of times and says, ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’ in an accent which is a cross between Norfolk and a deep Texan drawl.
‘RIP?’ says Jimmy Waller as his burger is delivered in front of him.
‘Rest in peace, you plum,’ says Mark.
‘I know what it means,’ says Jimmy, offended.
‘Well what are you saying then?’ says Mark.
I reach over and remove Jimmy’s flag, say, ‘You’ll have your eye out with that.’
‘They’d have done better not to have written the note,’ says Mark, back to me. ‘Why not just leave a knife? More impact. Waste of a good knife if you ask me.’
‘Waste of a good note on that twat,’ I say. ‘Anyway I got rid of it to make sure he doesn’t think he needs to pay them first.’
‘I wonder who else he’s skanked,’ says Mark, to himself, I think. ‘How much does he owe you?’ he adds. He swigs from his Bud.
‘Two fucking grand. I’ve been around everyone I could think of, he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘He’ll show up, Ryan. He can’t stay out of the way for too long.’
‘Johnny Deckchair said he’d gone to Canada.’
‘Canada? You’ve had it, then.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘No way,’ insists Mark. ‘He’ll show up, he’s probably in some bedsit up the road right now,
doing your gear.’ Mark takes his burger in both hands, studies it and takes a bite. He chews, once, twice, about six times. He screws his face up, looks like he’s about to gag. He swallows, takes a breath, then exclaims, ‘Gherkins!’
I glance up from my burger. ‘Yeah?’
‘I told ‘em no gherkins. Sam! You heard me. Didn’t I say no gherkins? Sam? Sam! Give her a nudge will you Jim? Christ. Is she still in there?’ He flaps his hands at Sam, yells ‘Hel-lo!’ She is staring at her salad.
‘The lettuce is limp as well!’ Mark continues. He has flopped these green things with the appearance of sliced moluscs on the table and now he is dangling something from between his fingers which swings from side to side, dripping burger sauce. ‘Call this an American diner? Should have gone to Zak’s.’
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with McDonald’s,’ says Jimmy.
‘They put gherkins in their burgers there, too,’ I say.
There’s now a ringing noise coming from Mark’s pocket.
‘Your phone, Mark,’ I say.
‘What?’ He stops inspecting his burger. ‘Oh, right.’ He gets up from the table, shouting into the Nokia mobile phone he’s pulled out of the inside pocket of his Stone Island jacket, which is supposed to glow in the dark for some reason. He got a good deal on it in Jonathan Trumbull’s gents’ outfitters.
‘Didn’t they give you a trolley with that?’ says Jimmy, pointing at Mark’s phone. ‘Doesn’t look very mobile to me.’ He smirks at his observation.
Mark ignores him, wanders toward the exit which is covered in American road signs, just like every other wall in the restaurant, shouting: ‘Hello? Hello? I can’t hear a fucking thing in here! I don’t even like the Beach Boys!’ He slops a handful of pink goo into a plantpot, wipes his hand on the Stars and Stripes hanging beside the swing doors, then barges through them with his shoulder.
‘I don’t know what’s up with gherkins,’ says Jimmy as Mark disappears outside. I can still hear him on the phone, shouting something. ‘They taste alright to me.’
‘I’m more concerned about Danny Kane and that two grand,’ I say.
‘Did you hear him say “no gherkins”?’ says Jim. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Nah I never heard him. What about you Samantha?’
‘Huh?’ says Samantha.
‘I said … actually don’t bother.’
‘What? What is it Ryan? Tell me.’
‘It’s OK, really. Get on with your salad,’ I say to her, and then: ‘Are you stoned?’ She glares at me. Her eyes are glazed. She looks back down at her plate.
I turn to Jimmy, study him.
‘What?’ he says.
‘Nothing,’ I say.
‘Stop looking at me then, you’re freaking me out.’ He looks bashful, sinks his teeth into his burger and tries to ignore me and then, mid chew, pleads, ‘Whaaaaat? What do you keep looking at? You’re giving me The Fear Ryan.’ Crumbs are flying out of his mouth.
‘You’re stoned too, aren’t you?’
‘I had a little smoke earlier,’ says Jimmy. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘I thought we had things to discuss,’ I say.
‘So?’
‘So we’d get it done a lot quicker if we weren’t all stoned.’
‘Mark is.’
‘So I’m the only one who isn’t.’
Jimmy looks at Samantha, who is still inspecting her salad. ‘I think so,’ he says.
‘Great,’ I say.
‘Do you reckon we’ll be here long?’ says Jimmy. ‘This place is freaking me out.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I say.
‘It feels a bit menacing. There’s too much going on with the walls, all those pictures and road signs and little statues and Mickey Mouse over there and Daffy Duck in the corner,’ he’s throwing his arms around, pointing in different directions. ‘It’s all a bit much, it’s making me dizzy. I feel like I’m in a Chucky film.’
The door crashes open and Mark is back at the table.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Where were we? I bet this burger’s cold now. Where’s that ketchup?’ He takes the ketchup from the table, lifts the lid of the bun, squirts a dollop in, takes the burger in both hands. He has his mouth open as wide as it will go, on the verge of taking an almighty bite, when all the lights go out. And in the silence, just before Stevie Wonder cranks up and starts singing Happy Birthday to Ya, and the waitress brings the cake out with the candles on it for the little girl sitting across the way to blow out, only one sound can be heard: Mark Baxter yelling, ‘That’s fucking it! I’ve had enough. I’m off!’
And another voice says, ‘I’m coming with you.’
When the singing has stopped and the lights go back up, I’m looking at two empty places where Mark and Jimmy once sat and Samantha is still sitting there staring at this piece of lettuce on her fork like it holds the secret to a happy life and I don’t even think she realises that the lights went out.
Buster’s is located on the first floor above a DIY shop in an old part of Norwich called Pottergate. The streets are narrow and the buildings are timber framed and someone once compared it to The Lanes in Brighton but I suspect that was an effort to make it sound cool.
In order to exit the restaurant you have to negotiate a set of stairs that leads down to street level. This is not an issue when you have paid for your meal and you can take them at a leisurely pace. But it takes a bit of concentration when you’re leaping down three steps at a time. Which is why I didn’t realise Samantha hadn’t followed me out of the door. Which is why, as I approach the exit to the street, I hear the restaurant door crash open above me and a crunch as Samantha trips in her black patent heels and hits the wall at the top of the stairs and a shadow looms over her and a huge hand reaches down and grabs her arm, so she’s almost dangling in mid air, pirouetting on one toe like a floppy ballerina.
Buster, I’m guessing, judging by the tattoos and the bald head, but more tellingly the grease-spattered apron, spits, ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’
Samantha is nothing to me, really. She is Mark’s girlfriend and frankly I don’t know what she was doing at the meal in the first place. She contributed nothing to the conversation and although she looks quite good, this is offset by the fact that she always seems to be out of it and her presence, if anything, only served to stifle proceedings.
‘I’m going to the toilet. Let go of me!’
But much as I would like to leave her to the whims of this restaurant owner, I am forced to turn back by my sense of common decency, drilled into me by my loving parents.
‘The toilet’s through there,’ says Buster, pointing back into the restaurant.
‘Hang on Buster, hang on mate, she’s with me,’ I say putting my hands up in what I hope is a calming gesture. I make my way back up the stairs towards them. ‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. Didn’t one of the others leave the money?’
‘You didn’t even ask for the bill,’ says Buster. His face is a brilliant red and there’s a vein bulging from his temple.
‘I think there was an issue with the gherkins.’
‘Gherkins? What are you talking about, gherkins?’
‘There … was one in his burger?’
‘So you thought you’d leg it while we were singing happy birthday? Because of a fucking gherkin?’
I shrug, say, ‘he requested you take the gherkins out.’
He keeps hold of Samantha, then he says, ‘I’m calling the police.’
My hand is already in my pocket, struggling to pull out a roll of twenties.
‘Look, Buster, it was just a bit of a laugh.’
‘Don’t give me that crap. What’s so funny about that? We’ll see if the Old Bill finds it funny shall we?’
‘I’ll sort it out Buster. Let’s not cause a scene. I can pay you. She’s got nothing to do with it. Let her go. How much was the bill?’
‘A hundred and fifty.’
‘A ... a hundred and fifty? Fuck off.’
‘That’s how much it is.’
‘It’s daylight robbery.’
‘Three burgers, one caesar salad, three beers, one glass of wine, and attempted theft. Now you pay, or I keep hold of her until the police arrive.’
‘We didn’t even eat the burgers!’
‘You don’t have to eat the burgers. You ordered them, I cooked them. Now pay the fuck up!’
‘Ryan just pay him for fuck’s sake! My arm hurts,’ whines Samantha.
I peel off the notes, slowly. ‘You got a tenner change?’ I say.
Buster actually goes a slight shade of purple.
I slap the notes in his open palm. ‘Here, and don’t expect us to come in here again,’ I tell him.
He drops Samantha, who goes sprawling down at least another three stairs, hair all over the place, skirt up over her waist, long tanned legs in the air, a flash of red knickers in the light of the stairwell.
He glares at me: ‘You wouldn’t fucking dare. And stop calling me Buster. Twat.’
As I turn round to close the door at the bottom of the stairs, Buster is still standing there, like he’s hoping for an excuse to fill me in. I give him a little wave.
Outside it’s a warm May evening. The air is thick with the scent of Joop and Obsession and the street is thronging with evening drinkers, all milling about without their jackets on. In the middle of them stands Samantha, looking like she’s just come off a fairground ride, more animated than she has been all night, doing some sort of jig, flopping her hands in the air.
‘Wooooh!!! That was fucking great Ryan!’ she says. ‘Where’s Mark? Let’s do it again!’
Now she’s straightening her skirt, gripping the hem and wiggling it around her hips. Her hair is all over her face and her elbow is already a fiery red. She couldn’t be attracting more attention if she had a spotlight on her.
I pretend not to see her, turn to walk down the street. She clatters after me.
‘We’d have got away if it wasn’t for these shoes Ryan,’ she grabs me for balance, wide-eyed and breathless and lifts her foot to show me her stilettos. ‘Shitty girly shoes, no good for that sort of thing.’
She reaches in her bag and pulls out a pack of Marlboro Lights, puts one between her lips, cups her hand over it and lights it. The end glows as she takes a long drag.
‘I was enjoying that burger,’ I tell her. ‘Didn’t even get to eat half of it. Have you seen your elbow?’
‘Hah! Look at that!’ She’s letting out a cloud of smoke and twisting her arm round the other way, inspecting this lump that seems to be getting bigger by the second.
I set off to find Mark and Jimmy. I reckon I know exactly where they are.
‘Where are you going Ryan?’ yells Samantha.
‘To find your boyfriend.’ I shout over my shoulder as I pick my pace up.
‘Wait for me! Ryan. Ryyyyan!’ 
It would be fair to say however that, since today marks 40 years since the first mobile phone call, the first 20 years offered not an awful lot in the way of technological progress, or at least not a patch on the past 20. 
