The Supplier
by Kristen Stone
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: We meet Mr Smith in a salad bar conducting some dubious cash-under-the-table business. But is he what he seems?
_____________________________________________________________________
It was lunchtime and the salad bar was busy. Heaving, almost. I sat at my special table, my back to the corner, an uninterrupted view of who was coming and going; who was making more than one visit to the ‘all you can eat’ salad counter. Most of the customers were office workers on a short lunch break and eager to stuff their faces as quickly as possible before moving on to complete other lunchtime chores. The table on the far side, diagonally opposite me, was filled with an office party obviously celebrating something; much loud banter and raucous laughter erupting every so often from that direction.
I studied the plate before me – a Grosvenor Pie, all pink meat and boiled egg encased in thick crusty pastry, surrounded by an Ensalade Mixta. My mouth fairly watered as I picked up my knife and fork and set to.
The start of my repast was interrupted by the shambling figure of Georgio as he entered the restaurant and shuffled over to my table. His balding head was bowed in contrition. His normally ruddy complexion paled with concern, maybe even fear. It was a warm day so I decided to overlook the fact that he was wearing a t-shirt over his jeans instead of something a little smarter. I nodded at the chair opposite me and he sat down.
“Ok,” I said in a reasonable tone. “Would you care to explain how you lost track of the merchandise? And no phoney excuses, I’ve heard them all before.”
“This is no excuse, Mr Smith,” Georgio gabbled. “It’s the God’s honest truth. When I got there someone had beaten me to it. The dealer had gone and the stuff with him. He must have made a deal with some other guy.”
I popped a whole cherry tomato into my mouth and bit into it. I don’t know how, but as it split the juice managed to squirt out of my mouth and hit Georgio straight in the eye. I didn’t apologise.
“You expect me to believe 10 kilos of top grade stuff that I had paid for was sold to someone else?” I asked.
Truth was I hadn’t actually paid anything. Buy on credit, sell for cash was my policy. Not that any of my operatives knew that. I trusted them to collect the cash and bring it to me – well, I accepted they might skim a little off the top before handing it over, I would have – but to actually make a sale and then deny it? Georgio wasn’t that bright – or that stupid.
I tried to spear a radish. It shot off the plate and hit Georgio in the middle of his forehead. I caught it on the rebound and popped it into my mouth.
“Ok,” I said as I chewed on the radish. “This time I believe you. But don’t let it happen again. Make sure you get to the dealer on time and don’t leave me with egg on my face for not fulfilling the needs of my clients.”
“Sure, Mr Smith. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“It’d better not, else you’ll be working for some other punk. Now, piss off.”
Georgio made a hasty retreat as the doors to the kitchen opened and one of the staff emerged bearing a tray with a cake complete with sparklers. The table in the corner clapped and cheered before bursting into a tuneless rendition of ‘Happy Birthday to you’. Poor Sindy looked mortified. And no wonder. Fancy being named after your mother’s favourite toy.
A waiter approached my table.
“More Perrier, Mr Smith?” he asked obsequiously.
I nodded, then added my thanks once the water had been poured. No need to be rude even if he was a slimy, bootlicking lackey.
Another of my gofers arrived and I nodded him into the seat Georgio had vacated. This was Freddie. Another skinny t-shirted, jean-clad kid who thought too much of himself. He had spiky hair and was wearing sunglasses which he did not remove. Must have met Georgio, I thought.
“Everything go ok?” I asked.
“Sure, no problems, Mr Smith. All transactions complete.”
He pushed an envelope across the table and I took it and slipped it into the briefcase that was standing open at the side of my chair.
“You hear about what happened to Georgio?”I asked. Freddie nodded vigorously. “Make sure it doesn’t happen to you.” He nodded some more and then made a quick exit.
As I worked my way through my lunch more of my gofers came and sat at my table and slid envelopes full of money towards me. I didn’t check any of them. I knew how much should be in each. I knew an odd tenner would be missing. They knew I knew. What most of them didn’t know was that if they didn’t help themselves I would actually pay them more.
My mobile rang. It was one of my regular customers, desperation in his voice as he said:
“I need some stuff urgently. Can you get it to me before tonight?”
“Well, I’m not sure, Carlo. It’s a bit late.”
“Please. I’ll pay whatever it costs. I really need it. There’s a special party.”
“I’ll see what I can do and have one of my boys bring it over. What exactly do you want?”
The list was not that long but it would be expensive. I ended the call with a promise to be in touch.
I watched the birthday party leave as I wiped the last of the salad dressing from my plate with some bread. Not much work would be done in that office this afternoon, I thought. I pushed my plate away, drained my glass of Perrier and closed the briefcase. Slowly I got to my feet and walked out of the restaurant, giving the staff a cheery wave as I went.
Then I hurried down the street, briefcase clutched tightly in my hand. It was tough being the main supplier of top class salad produce to the finest chefs and restaurants of the city, but someone had to do it.
Swearwords: None.
Description: We meet Mr Smith in a salad bar conducting some dubious cash-under-the-table business. But is he what he seems?
_____________________________________________________________________
It was lunchtime and the salad bar was busy. Heaving, almost. I sat at my special table, my back to the corner, an uninterrupted view of who was coming and going; who was making more than one visit to the ‘all you can eat’ salad counter. Most of the customers were office workers on a short lunch break and eager to stuff their faces as quickly as possible before moving on to complete other lunchtime chores. The table on the far side, diagonally opposite me, was filled with an office party obviously celebrating something; much loud banter and raucous laughter erupting every so often from that direction.
I studied the plate before me – a Grosvenor Pie, all pink meat and boiled egg encased in thick crusty pastry, surrounded by an Ensalade Mixta. My mouth fairly watered as I picked up my knife and fork and set to.
The start of my repast was interrupted by the shambling figure of Georgio as he entered the restaurant and shuffled over to my table. His balding head was bowed in contrition. His normally ruddy complexion paled with concern, maybe even fear. It was a warm day so I decided to overlook the fact that he was wearing a t-shirt over his jeans instead of something a little smarter. I nodded at the chair opposite me and he sat down.
“Ok,” I said in a reasonable tone. “Would you care to explain how you lost track of the merchandise? And no phoney excuses, I’ve heard them all before.”
“This is no excuse, Mr Smith,” Georgio gabbled. “It’s the God’s honest truth. When I got there someone had beaten me to it. The dealer had gone and the stuff with him. He must have made a deal with some other guy.”
I popped a whole cherry tomato into my mouth and bit into it. I don’t know how, but as it split the juice managed to squirt out of my mouth and hit Georgio straight in the eye. I didn’t apologise.
“You expect me to believe 10 kilos of top grade stuff that I had paid for was sold to someone else?” I asked.
Truth was I hadn’t actually paid anything. Buy on credit, sell for cash was my policy. Not that any of my operatives knew that. I trusted them to collect the cash and bring it to me – well, I accepted they might skim a little off the top before handing it over, I would have – but to actually make a sale and then deny it? Georgio wasn’t that bright – or that stupid.
I tried to spear a radish. It shot off the plate and hit Georgio in the middle of his forehead. I caught it on the rebound and popped it into my mouth.
“Ok,” I said as I chewed on the radish. “This time I believe you. But don’t let it happen again. Make sure you get to the dealer on time and don’t leave me with egg on my face for not fulfilling the needs of my clients.”
“Sure, Mr Smith. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“It’d better not, else you’ll be working for some other punk. Now, piss off.”
Georgio made a hasty retreat as the doors to the kitchen opened and one of the staff emerged bearing a tray with a cake complete with sparklers. The table in the corner clapped and cheered before bursting into a tuneless rendition of ‘Happy Birthday to you’. Poor Sindy looked mortified. And no wonder. Fancy being named after your mother’s favourite toy.
A waiter approached my table.
“More Perrier, Mr Smith?” he asked obsequiously.
I nodded, then added my thanks once the water had been poured. No need to be rude even if he was a slimy, bootlicking lackey.
Another of my gofers arrived and I nodded him into the seat Georgio had vacated. This was Freddie. Another skinny t-shirted, jean-clad kid who thought too much of himself. He had spiky hair and was wearing sunglasses which he did not remove. Must have met Georgio, I thought.
“Everything go ok?” I asked.
“Sure, no problems, Mr Smith. All transactions complete.”
He pushed an envelope across the table and I took it and slipped it into the briefcase that was standing open at the side of my chair.
“You hear about what happened to Georgio?”I asked. Freddie nodded vigorously. “Make sure it doesn’t happen to you.” He nodded some more and then made a quick exit.
As I worked my way through my lunch more of my gofers came and sat at my table and slid envelopes full of money towards me. I didn’t check any of them. I knew how much should be in each. I knew an odd tenner would be missing. They knew I knew. What most of them didn’t know was that if they didn’t help themselves I would actually pay them more.
My mobile rang. It was one of my regular customers, desperation in his voice as he said:
“I need some stuff urgently. Can you get it to me before tonight?”
“Well, I’m not sure, Carlo. It’s a bit late.”
“Please. I’ll pay whatever it costs. I really need it. There’s a special party.”
“I’ll see what I can do and have one of my boys bring it over. What exactly do you want?”
The list was not that long but it would be expensive. I ended the call with a promise to be in touch.
I watched the birthday party leave as I wiped the last of the salad dressing from my plate with some bread. Not much work would be done in that office this afternoon, I thought. I pushed my plate away, drained my glass of Perrier and closed the briefcase. Slowly I got to my feet and walked out of the restaurant, giving the staff a cheery wave as I went.
Then I hurried down the street, briefcase clutched tightly in my hand. It was tough being the main supplier of top class salad produce to the finest chefs and restaurants of the city, but someone had to do it.
About the Author
Kristen Stone describes herself as a frustrated writer looking to conquer the world. Although born in London, she knows all the words to 500 Miles, has attended several Burns Night Suppers and would love to play the bagpipes. She has even offered to change her name to McStone. Those are all good reasons for McStorytellers to grant her the status of Honorary Scot.
Kristen’s website is at http://www.kristen-stone-the-writer.com. Her first novel Edge of Extinction can be purchased at the link below.
Kristen’s website is at http://www.kristen-stone-the-writer.com. Her first novel Edge of Extinction can be purchased at the link below.