The Devil in Silver

Nurse Washburn rolled her eyes. “No beer.”

“But you’re paying for the slices,” Loochie clarified.

“Two each.” She patted her pocket again. “That’s right.”

No declarations were made by the patients. No one shook hands or signed a treaty. But the potential rebellion had been quelled. Heatmiser walked to the door of Sal’s Restaurant & Bar Incorporated. He held it open.

Sal’s Restaurant & Bar was bigger than your average pizza place because it really had been a fine establishment once. (It had also once been owned by a guy named Sal. Now it was actually owned and operated by a man named Joseph Angeli, but who was going to pay to fabricate a whole new awning? You?)

The bar had been removed (Sal took his liquor license with him) and replaced with the traditional bank of ovens for cooking up slices. But the dining area remained the same. Seating for fifty, and each table had a maroon tablecloth. The back wall had a faded trompe l’oeil painting of an Italian city under a blue sky. When the patients entered the restaurant, a few of them cooed.

“This is nice,” Redhead Kingpin said.

The patients crowded the nearby counter. One old man stood behind it, looking bemused. He had his hands in a gray plastic bin of shredded parmesan cheese. His full head of wavy white hair sat flat on his scalp from working near the heat of the ovens. His eyebrows were thinning and his face clean-shaved. His cheeks and forehead were red, and his nose had a high arch, like an Art Deco eagle, which made the man look angry all the time. Another person could be heard behind a swinging door, clattering pans. The patients jammed themselves against the counter, and the old man looked at them. He nodded once, and said, “So what’s all this?”

They called out orders.

“Lemme get two pepperoni!”

“Lemme get one anchovy!”

“Lemme get three with sausage!”

But the guy didn’t even take his hands out of the cheese. He just scanned. Finally Scotch Tape entered the restaurant. “Everybody go take a seat,” he shouted. “Take a seat!”

The patients glumly moved away from the counter.

The old man smiled and pointed at Scotch Tape.

“That’s my guy.”

A teenage couple occupied one table in the restaurant, a single half-eaten slice between them. The girl leafed through a newspaper, and the boy ticked away on his cell phone. But as the patients moved past the pair, they looked up. Were they shocked to see so many mental patients cresting over them like a wave? No, it wasn’t that. These two kids were just amazed to see so many customers. Normally, Sal (they didn’t know his real name was Joseph Angeli) wouldn’t serve this many people in a week.

The patients took their seats. There were plenty of tables, but they clustered near each other, as if afraid to drift too far apart. While the others were discussing their orders, Redhead Kingpin and Still Waters paid attention to that newspaper at the teenagers’ table. The girl flipped the pages loudly out of boredom, and those two watched her enviously.

Both nurses took a table together and pushed out a third chair for Scotch Tape. Scotch Tape remained at the counter, jabbering with the owner. Sal looked at the group as Scotch Tape pointed at them. He nodded his head faintly.

Scotch Tape returned to the group. He clapped his hands at the start of his announcement. “I told Sal that everyone is getting two slices apiece.”

Loochie raised her hand, “I want mushrooms on mine.”

Scotch Tape waved one hand. “We’re not getting into all that. Everyone gets two cheese slices and a soda.”

Sal came from behind the counter carrying a plastic tray crammed with Coke cans, all perspiring chilled droplets. He went from table to table plopping down cans. Three people demanded different drinks. Sal didn’t argue. He took the Cokes and returned with two ginger ales and one Diet Coke. Once that was done, he stood before the patients and rubbed his big hands, making a swishing sound.

“I’m happy to have you all here today,” he said. “Call me Sal. I’ll be making your pizza.”

He smiled at them, much too widely. He really waggled his eyebrows. Cartoonish gestures. The kind of thing you might do when first meeting a group of kindergartners.

Pepper leaned toward Loochie. “Why’s he talking to us like that?”

“Have any of you made pizza before?” Sal asked. “It’s not that diffi— hard. But it’s hard to make it right.”

Loochie sighed. “He knows we’re mental patients.”

“Scotch Tape must’ve told him,” Pepper said. Sal was about to explain what dough and cheese were. After that, maybe he’d give a lesson on the oven and the transformative power of heat! Pepper didn’t feel like humoring the guy as he tried to “communicate” with them. They were out for a trip, a kind of vacation. He wanted a reprieve from the unit, not a reminder.

“Hey, Sal,” Pepper called out. “Can you make my slice with Haldol?”

That made Loochie grin. “I’ll take lithium on mine,” she added.

“I want a little Depacot on mine,” Doris Roberts shouted. “A dank!”