On to the menu. I was relieved to see that they had a kids’ section.
“Are you waiting for your parents?” A short, stocky waiter with slicked-back red hair-Jason-was standing next to Iggy.
“No, there’s just us,” I said.
He frowned slightly and gave us a once-over. “Ah. Are you ready to order?”
“Anyone know what they want?” I asked.
The Gasman looked up. “How many chicken tenders are on a plate?”
Jason looked almost pained. “I believe there are four.”
“I better have two orders, then,” said the Gasman. “And this fruit cocktail. And two glasses of milk.”
“Two orders for yourself?” Jason clarified.
The Gasman nodded. “With fries. To start.”
“I want a hot-fudge sundae,” said Angel.
“Real food first,” I said. “You need fuel.”
“Okay,” Angel said agreeably, then blinked and looked up at Jason. “We’re not spoiled rich brats,” she said. “We’re just hungry.”
Jason started, then his face flushed and he shifted his feet.
“I want this prime rib thing,” Angel said, looking at the adult side of the menu. “And all this stuff that goes with it. And a soda. And lemonade.”
“The prime rib is sixteen ounces,” our waiter said. “It’s a pound of meat.”
“Uh-huh,” Angel said, wondering what he was getting at.
“She can handle it,” I said. “She’s a big eater. Nudge? What do you want?”
“This lasagna primavera,” Nudge decided. “I might need two. It comes with salad, right? And bread? Some milk. Okay?” She looked at me, and I nodded.
Jason just stood there-he thought we were pulling his leg. “Two lasagnas?”
“You might want to start writing this stuff down,” I suggested. I waited till he had noted their orders, then said, “I’ll start with the shrimp cocktail. Then the maple-glazed roast pork loin, with the cabbage and potatoes and everything. The house salad with bleu cheese dressing. And a lemonade and an iced tea.”
Jason wrote it all down, as if he were enduring an hour-long eye-poke.
“The lobster bisque,” Fang said. “Then the prime rib. A big bottle of water.”
“The spaghetti and meatballs,” Iggy said.
“That’s on the children’s menu,” our waiter said, sounding tense. “For our patrons twelve and under.”
Iggy looked ticked off.
“How about the rack of lamb?” I said quickly. “It comes with potatoes and spinach, and a merlot-rosemary sauce.”
“Fine, okay,” Iggy said, irritated. “Plus a couple glasses of milk and some bread.”
Jason lowered his pad and looked at us. “This is a great deal of food for just the six of you,” he said. “Maybe you’ve overordered.”
“I understand your concern,” I said, my tension starting to get the better of me. “But it’s okay. Just bring it, please.”
“You’ll have to pay for all of it, whether you eat it or not.”
“Yeah, that’s usually how a restaurant works,” I said slowly, with exaggerated patience.
“This is going to really add up,” he persisted unwisely.
“I get it,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to keep my cool. “I get the concept. Food costs money. Lots of food costs lots of money. Just bring us what we ordered. Please.”
Jason looked at me stiffly and stalked away toward the kitchen.
“I love this place,” Fang said with a straight face.
“Did we order too much?” Angel asked.
“No,” I said. “It’s fine. I guess they’re not used to hearty eaters.”
An underling brought us two baskets of bread and set out small dishes of olive oil. Even she seemed skeptical.
My fingers curled into claws on the white tablecloth. And it all kind of went downhill from there.
104
“Good afternoon.” A man in a suit and tie had materialized at my elbow. Jason was with him.
“Hello,” I said warily.
“I am the manager. Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.
Was this a trick question? “Well, I don’t think so,” I said. “Unless the kitchen is out of something we ordered.”
“Yes, well,” said the manager. “You seem to have ordered an unusual quantity of food. We wouldn’t want to be wasteful with it, or present you with a shocking bill because your eyes were bigger than your stomachs.” He gave a small artificial laugh.
“Well, that is just so sweet of you,” I said, close to my breaking point. “But we’re pretty hungry. It seems like we should just order and get what we ordered, you know?”
This didn’t go over as well as you would think.
The manager took on a look of forced patience.
“Perhaps you would be happier in some other restaurant,” he said. “Broadway is nearby.”
I couldn’t believe this. “No freaking duh,” I snapped, finally losing it. “But we’re in this one and we’re hungry. Now, I have the money, we brought our appetites with us; are you going to give us what we ordered or not?”
The manager looked like he had just sucked on a lemon. “Not, I believe,” he said, signaling to a burly guy loitering by the doors.
Great, just great. I rubbed my forehead.
“This is stupid,” Iggy said angrily. “Let’s just split. Gasser, we’ll go someplace that isn’t run by Nazis, okay?”
“Okay,” said the Gasman uncertainly.
Angel looked up at the manager. “Jason thinks you’re full of hot air and that you smell like a sissy,” she said. “And what’s a bimbo?”
Jason stifled a choking sound and turned red. The manager turned to glare at him.
“Fine,” I said, standing up and throwing my napkin down. “We’re going. The food’s probably lousy here, anyway.”
That was when the cops showed up.
Who called the cops?
Were they real cops?
I wasn’t planning to stay around and ask them.
105
Remember how the kitchen was going to provide a useful escape route? That would have worked great if the cops hadn’t split up, two coming in the front, two more coming in through the-you guessed it-kitchen.
All around us, tables of people were staring open-mouthed. This was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to them all week.
“Up and away,” Fang said, and I nodded reluctantly.
Nudge and Iggy looked surprised, Gazzy grinned, and Angel got that determined look on her face.
“Right, kids,” said a female cop, weaving her way through the tables. “You have to come with us. We’ll call your folks down at the station.”
Jason shot me a superior smile, and suddenly I was furious. How hard would it be for someone to cut us just one break? Without stopping to think, I snatched up the bowl of olive oil and upturned it on his head. His mouth opened in an O as pale green oil streaked down his face.
If that surprised him, what happened next would rock his world.
Moving fast, as only a mutant bird kid could, I jumped up on a chair, stepped onto our table, then threw myself into the air, snapping my wings open and pushing down hard. I dropped alarmingly toward the ground-hadn’t had a running takeoff, which is always best-but surged upward again with the next stroke and rose toward the high raftered ceiling.
Angel joined me, then Iggy, the Gasman, Nudge, and Fang.
Looking down, I couldn’t help laughing at everyone’s faces. “Astonished” doesn’t cover it. They were stunned, dumbstruck, completely freaked out.
“Jerk!” the Gasman yelled, and pelted the manager with pieces of bread.