Back For Seconds

Crime Fiction by Gregory Meece

George hadn’t eaten since Monday. It was Wednesday afternoon. He got in line as quickly as he could because Harvest House sometimes ran short around the holidays.

“Man, you stink,” said George to the fellow ahead of him. He recognized Iggy by the man’s heavily tatted arms that protruded from his stained tee shirt.

Turning around, Iggy replied, “That the way you greet a friend?” Nobody referred to him by his real name, Ignazio Marin, since he was in school.

“I heard they let you out,” said George. “Guess I heard right.”

“Tell you the truth, sometimes I wish I was back in,” said Iggy. “At least we knew where our next meal was comin’ from.”

“And jails have heat,” said George. He pointed toward the food bank’s storefront windows. “Before Harvest House, I was standin’ in that intersection holding a cardboard sign.” “Getting’ too chilly for that now. Almost December.”

“Listen to you! You got one of them calendar watches?” joked Iggy.

“Why you think there are so many here today?” asked George. “Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. Better fill up on the turkey and taters while they still got some. Last year, latecomers got ham sandwiches and corn for their supper.”

“What was they expectin’? Filet damn mignon?”

The men came to the first station and held up their empty trays. The server, wearing an apron and a hair net, appeared uncomfortable as he forced a smile.

“Howdy, gentlemen,” said the server as he plopped a load of stuffing onto Iggy’s paper plate.

“Hear that, George? We’re gentlemen,” Iggy laughed. The server’s discomfort was growing. He thought the men were mocking him. His office coworkers talked the boss into joining them for their annual company service project, serving Thanksgiving meals to the homeless. He signed up for a few hours on Wednesday so he could avoid working on the actual holiday. That was reserved for the traditional family gathering at the Mannerling homestead in the city’s swanky suburbs.

“Say, man, why you wearin’ a tie under that apron?” asked Iggy, his filthy fingernail almost touching the man’s clothes as he pointed.

“Just a habit, I suppose.”

“George here has a habit, too. He’s what you call a ‘habitual offender’.” The pair laughed so hard that the other servers gawked at them disapprovingly. They would have stories to take back to the breakroom on Monday.

Iggy shifted down the line toward the turkey and gravy stations. He glanced at the first server again. His face was familiar, but Iggy couldn’t place it. He was wearing one of those “Hello. My name is…” tags stuck to his shirt. “William Mannerling” was printed on it with a Sharpie. Iggy chuckled inside. Why hadn’t the guy just written “Bill.”

George and Iggy sat across from each other at one of the folding tables that were set up cafeteria-style. They dove into their food, like a couple of wild animals who made their first kill after days of searching for prey. Dessert was a tiny slice of pumpkin pie wrapped in layers of plastic. Iggy held it up to the light as if he were inspecting it for maggots. “Looks like leftovers from last year’s supper,” he said.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said George. “And we, sure as shit, are two sorry-assed beggars.”

“How much you think those bankers make?” asked Iggy.

“Why you say they’re from a bank?” asked George. “You makin’ a withdrawal today? Hope you brought your stocking mask.”

“The sign by the food line said, ‘Volunteers provided by Windstone Savings and Loan,’” replied Iggy. “You got to be observant. Otherwise, the purse you’re stealin’ might be a lady cop’s. Just like I observed that stuffing server guy. I know that face… Wait a minute. I remember the name, too. ‘William Mannerling.’ I went to high school with a fella named “Billy Mannerling. Must be the same guy.”

“You graduated from high school?” asked George, incredulously.

“Thrown out in ninth grade. Who knows where I’d be today if I’d made it all the way? Maybe I’d be up there with William Mannerling, serving bums like us. I think I’m going to talk to old Billy and see if he can help an old classmate. Tens and twenties would be just fine.”

As Iggie headed back to the serving line, he noticed an attractive woman who had just entered Harvest House. She was wearing designer jeans with a muted yellow blouse, wrapped in a gingerbread duster cardigan.  An antique bronze turkey brooch with colored crystals in its feathers completed her fashionable holiday ensemble.

 Iggy figured the woman was with the bank group because they appeared to recognize her when she aimed her cell phone at them.  The servers yukked it up, displaying their ladles and serving spoons like props. With their pictures about to be preserved for the company newsletter, they grinned madly—trying to project that they were having the times of their lives dolling out pressed turkey and clumpy gravy to the downtrodden. When the woman lowered her phone, their faces reverted to their previous blankness. The woman planted a kiss on William Mannerling’s cheek.

“Oh—the wife,” said Iggy. He listened as she asked William if he was ready to leave. “I’ve got a carload of groceries for tomorrow’s feast,” she told him. “I found the most delicious-looking eggnog-flavored ice cream that will pair well with the homemade apple pie. We need to get a move on before it melts.”

“Sure, hon,” William said, trying not to sound too pleased. It wouldn’t be good for the other volunteers to hear how grateful the boss was to be reprieved. “If you can help me untie this damn apron.”

The woman set her purse on the floor so she could spin her husband around to get at the knot. Iggy was standing within a few feet of the pair. He saw the woman’s wallet, with its gold YSL logo, sticking out of her purse’s side pocket. Iggy knew those letters spelled “wealthy.” He bent down as if needing to tie his shoe. Reaching inside the purse, he effortlessly slipped the wallet into his sock. Nonchalantly, he returned to the dining area and sat across from his friend. Like clockwork, the hand-off was made. Within seconds, George was outside, navigating the city’s back allies. His home.

After a couple minutes of polite goodbyes, Mrs. Mannerling rummaged through her purse, searching for her car keys. As they exited Harvest House’s front doors, she cried, “Where’s my wallet?”

“What is it, hon?” asked her husband.

“My wallet—It’s gone!” she shouted. “Someone call the police!” All the faces in the dining area were now looking at her when she added, “One of these, these thugs, must have taken it!”

When the police finished interviewing the volunteers it was evident that nobody saw a thing. The unsuspecting are no match for the professional pickpockets and purse snatchers who are ever vigilant, ready to prey on them. Truthfully, people like the Mannerlings hardly “see” them at all. The unlucky and disadvantaged are invisible to them—until they get in their way.

When the police finished searching the diners, they told Mrs. Mannerling that her missing purse most likely was many blocks away by now.

Later that evening, Iggy and George met behind the liquor store where they knew to wait for each other. “Eighty bucks,” said George. “That’s forty a piece.”

Stuffing two new twenties into his pants pocket, Iggy felt satisfied with a good day’s work. “Not too shabby for a couple of low-lifes,” he said. “A hot Thanksgiving meal and a forty-dollar tip.”

George emptied the rest of the wallet’s contents on the pavement. The usual credit cards, driver’s license, library card, and various store “Rewards” cards tumbled out. Then something tinkled onto the concrete.

“Looks like a spare car key,” said George, holding it up to a dangling lightbulb encrusted with dead mosquitoes. He put the key back in the empty wallet and bent his arm like he was planning to chuck it into the dumpster.

“Wait,” said Iggy. “Let me have that.”

“Don’t tell me you’re thinkin’ what I think you’re thinkin’,” responded George. “Even lightnin’ don’t strike twice. Ain’t that what landed you in the jug last time? Stealin’ cars?”

Iggy muttered, “Maybe I just want to see where my old classmate and his lovely wife are living these days. Let me see that license. I might just drop in on the Mannerlings tomorrow.”

“You crazy? Why?”

“Thanksgiving dinner. Goin’ back for seconds.”

***

Iggy passed a couple of cars parked in the driveway as he walked up to the Mannerlings’ home. Both garage doors were open. He tried the door handle on a red BMW coupe parked in the first bay. It opened. Iggy was always amazed at how trusting folks like these could be. He heard laughter from the back of the house, so he left the garage to inspect. Peeking around an ornamental shrub, he saw a partially opened window. He edged closer.

“Poor William.” Iggy recognized Mrs. Mannerling’s voice. “He looked so out of place, wearing an apron and that stupid hairnet. You’re bald, darling!” This brought a roar from other voices in the room.

“You laugh now, hon,” said William. “But it wasn’t so funny when they stole your wallet.”

“They’re animals!” said Mrs. Mannerling using a dramatic voice. “You should have seen them, Vera. One of them looked like he escaped from prison. And the smell…. I’ll bet some of them haven’t bathed in months.”

Vera, one of the guests, jumped in. “They should go out and get jobs. That’s what I say. Why use good tax dollars to feed those kinds of people when they’re too lazy to work?”

“I think the food’s donated,” said William. “Anyway, we did our good deed for the day.”

“You mean you got your PR photo-op,” corrected his wife. “Maybe next year your bank friends can arrange the service project at the zoo. The animals there are cleaner!”

Iggy heard another eruption of laughter. When they caught their breath, one of the Mannerling children politely said, “Pass the cranberry sauce, please?” Then the doorbell rang.

A teenage boy answered the door, greeted by a smiling Iggy. “Happy Turkey Day! I’m an old classmate of your father’s. May I come in?” The boy ushered Iggy into the dining room, which had suddenly become tomblike.

“Hey there Billy. Remember me from high school?” said Iggy. William didn’t recognize him from the day before, let alone from school. “Ignazio Marin. I wasn’t there for the long haul, but we were in homeroom together. You know, last names beginning with ‘M’?”

William’s mouth opened, but words escaped him. He cleared his throat instead. Then, Mrs. Mannerling screamed, “It’s the thief who stole my wallet! He’s going to kill us! Someone, call the police!” With that, a man seated next to her took out his cell phone and started to press numbers.

“We’re not doing that,” said Iggy, lunging for the man’s arm. “It’s Thanks…”

With Iggy’s body suspended over the green bean casserole, Mrs. Mannerling saw her opportunity. Eyeing the roast turkey, she grabbed the serrated carving knife and thrust it upwards, into Iggy’s abdomen. Blood oozed from the wound, dripping onto the sliced white meat. Iggy grabbed Mrs. Mannerling’s hand, which was still clutched around the knife’s handle. He saw the room fading.  Mrs. Mannerling got a rush of adrenaline as she twisted the carving knife inside Iggy’s gut. Blood gushed, soaking into the table linens.

As Iggy’s body collapsed into the Mannerling’s Thanksgiving feast, the last thing he heard was someone complaining, “And now dinner’s ruined.”

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Bio: Gregory Meece is a lifelong educator, fiction writer, and woodcarver–though not necessarily in that order. Greg worked with all grades, K-college, serving the last 20 years of his career as head of school. He graduated from the University of Delaware, where he earned English, communications, and educational leadership degrees. His stories have been accepted by print, online, and podcast publishers. He and his wife live on a former Christmas tree farm in Pennsylvania.

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