Billy tried to fool the rookie into taking the call, but he wasn’t stupid. 324 Deckard was on every pizza guy’s list: bad neighborhood, bad attitude, and worst of all, bad tippers.
“Last call, it won’t be that bad,” Bossman said as he slipped Billy the goods and patted the Honda’s roof. Billy floored the gas in acknowledgment. It didn’t take a people-reader to understand: Some smuck’s gotta do it, might as well be you.
See, a good pizza guy reads people, knows them. Billy read the receipt and growled. Anchovies, pineapples, and bacon. Jesus. With 324 it always something new. Families you understand: always the same orders, good tips. Co-eds: shared toppings, expanding palates. But with 324 it was wildness for its own sake. Hunger, greed , people looking to be fed but never filled.
A white girl opened the door, the air around her thick with herb and mamba. She inspected the pizza while her boyfriend sat inside, looking over his shoulder, noticing every move.
“Oh, Billy,” she purred, fingering his name tag. “Unlike some people, you always get it right.” Her eyes and neck rolled backwards in her man’s direction, making him clench his fist.
“No prob.” Last call. Just pay me.
Making a show of it, she took out a twenty and a pen and scribbled on its face. She slipped the bill in his pocket, smirking, eyes with bad intent.
Trouble. A good pizza guy reads people, knows them, and Billy knew he was in trouble before the lamp even hit his face. Fighting the stars in his vision, he got to his car, leaving the Cuban-Spanish threats of murder behind.
“You shouldn’t’ve made him do that!” a woman screamed in the distance, she and her man’s hunger fed for the night, never to be filled.