[cover story]

The Hook Café:
Where pretention and animosity go hand in hand

By Elizabeth Dougherty
Winner of encore magazine’s annual
Creative Writing contest

Through the glass door, a squad car rolled by and screeched to a halt several yards past the mangled parking meter. A clap of thunder sounded, and raindrops dotted the foggy window pane—a gloomy forecast for the leather interior of Marilyn’s car. The headlights, left illuminated, cast an eerie glow on the entrance of the Hook Café.

Isabella Dubois raised her eyebrow and frowned as Marilyn finished her drink, slammed the glass on the bar and stood on the chair. She scanned the room, making eye contact with as many guests as possible, before introducing her purpose in crashing the rehearsal dinner: “A toast! Every couple deserves a blessing—my blessing, in this case, which is a story I will share about a subject on which, undeniably, I am an expert.”  

Marilyn let out a delighted cackle while releasing the cap of the bottle, which she raised to her lips before announcing in a deep, official voice, “A tale about a holy union with the governor himself, Mr. Peter Long....

“Now, this may come as a shock to the many familiar faces standing before me this evening, but in my youth, I was naïve, trusting and compassionate,” Marilyn said, capping the irony with another swig of tequila. 

“I was also single, an unfortunate situation for which my mother presented a solution: Buy a dog to take on leisurely strolls through the park as a way to meet men, of course. But instead of a dog, I got Peter.”

“This is ludicrous!” Peter slammed his fist on the table, rattling the place settings and the nerves of his children. The room, perfectly silent except for the beat of the rattle Marilyn waved in her left hand. 

“Marilyn,” Peter began, alternating his glance between his former and future wives. “First of all, why are you here? Second of all, why are you still speaking?” He turned to two bulky bodyguards posted by his side. “Please, get rid of her.”

A shrill ring sounded from deep within Peter’s pocket. He sighed angrily and ripped the phone from his pocket. With a great scowl, he pressed “talk” and lifted the phone to his ear. “What do you want?” He pursed his lips, pacing between the table where his children huddled together in their seats, barely breathing, and the chair on which Marilyn stood, waiting to finish her toast. He listened for less than 10 seconds before exploding. “I don’t care how it happens, just get me the money!”

The guards, who had not moved an inch, suddenly sprung into action and moved in on Marilyn. Her eyes lit up and she hopped off the chair. The tip of her python stiletto heel hit a shard of broken glass, sending her skidding across the marble floor and into the arms of her ex-husband.

Officer Rafferty stepped out of the vehicle and tripped on the severed bumper. His cheeks reddened and he kicked the bumper, launching it onto the curb and into the side of the building. Officer Flatts, resisting the urge to laugh, glanced up toward the sky when the restaurant sign caught his eye.

“Dick, look where we are,” he said, pointing a stubby finger toward the foggy window of the Hook Café. 

“Surprise, surprise,” his partner said, “I’ll be shocked if I don’t know who is responsible for this damage to public property.” He stalked over to the car, sat in the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Officer Flatts watched while he picked up the radio and began shouting at the dispatch, then turned his attention to the entrance. Isabella Dubois withdrew her head from the window, but it was too late. 

“Isabella Dubois,” he said, placing two muddy boots on the marble floor.
“Roscoe,” the waitress said, forcing a weak smile, “please, excuse me. I have work to do.” She scampered away before he could respond.

Officer Rafferty barged through the door, knocking his partner out of the way and stormed toward center of the dining room. “Marilyn Somers, you are under arrest.” He tore the champagne flute out of her hand, pulled her arms behind her back and snapped on a pair of handcuffs. The click of the cuffs caught Peter Long off guard, and an expression of genuine concern crossed over his face. His bodyguards stepped closer, and his boys began to cry.

“No, sir,” Marilyn said, wriggling to escape from confinement, “I am not under arrest because I have done nothing wrong.” She smiled assertively, but the wild look in her eyes suggested nothing less than panic.

“Gentleman,” Peter interjected, putting his arms around the officers’ shoulders, “is this really necessary?”

“Sir, this woman is a nuisance to society. She has damaged public property.”     
“Now, hold on a minute,” Peter said, tightening his grip on the policemen. “What kind of damage are we talking about here?” 
    
“A parking meter, sir. And the meter was also expired.”

“Good Lord!” Peter released the men and threw his hands in the air. “A parking meter!”

“Now,” Officer Rafferty said, retaking hold of the handcuffs, “we must take her to the station.”

Peter sighed and pulled out his wallet. “How much?” He flipped through a wad of bills, took half and handed it to Officer Flatts, who gladly accepted the money and stuffed the pile in his pocket. Officer Rafferty stared at his partner in disbelief.

“Return the money immediately, Roscoe.” Peter Long rolled his eyes and held the other half out for Officer Rafferty. 

“Just take the money, and leave,” he said firmly, his bodyguards inching closer and closer. Officer Rafferty, taking into account the width of the wad, contemplated his options for several seconds, then grabbed the money and stuffed it in his pocket. He ripped the handcuff key out of a shirt pocket and threw it by Peter’s patent leather shoes. 

“I’ll let you do the honors,” he snarled, and once again, with Officer Flatts trotting in his wake, he stormed across the dining room and exited the Hook Café.