By Carter Swart
Harry was hard at work, spatula in hand, hovering over the hot grill,
when his familiar world momentarily lost focus, obliterated in concert
with the front door opening and. . .
. . .Out of the silent mist they came, pushing through
the murk, shaking the water from their clothing: a pretty young woman wearing
a scarlet raincoat, a homeless man in a GI camouflage jacket, a black teenaged
gang-banger wearing a blue bandana, and a gray-haired old lady bearing
a shopping bag full of groceries.
Briefly confused by a sudden all-enveloping, soundless landscape of swirling clouds, Harry Caine gripped the counter for support, desperately seeking the solid footing of reality. He vigorously shook his head to clear the cobwebs, wiping his eyes to tear away the panorama of shifting shapes and shadows–and the fear.
Abruptly, normalcy returned. Everything snapped back into place–the apparition dissipated, the lights came on, the kitchen walls and the grill crystalized, frying meat sizzled, onions sent forth their fragrant odor, and the muffled sound of human discourse reached his ears.
Thank God! thought Harry. What in hell just happened to me?
"Harry, you okay?" It was Grace, peering over the kitchen transom, looking puzzled and concerned. “You’re white as a ghost.”
He wiped his brow and waved her away. "No sweat, I'm fine." But he wasn't fine. He'd just suffered the most intense jolt of deja vu imaginable. Worse, the four people just now taking their seats at the counter, the ones who’d just filed in from out of the murk–now in corporeal form–well, he'd seen them before. Their sudden entrance was eerily familiar, stark, and disturbing.
Deja vu.
He shivered, then went on with his work, tossing two fresh hamburger patties on the grill and flattening out a gob of greasy hash browns with the spatula. There followed a satisfying sizzle, heralding the Red Lion Diner's famous Hamburger Deluxe.
Dowdy Grace Somerville leisurely spiked two more orders onto the circular carousel, eyed Harry with some apprehension, then strode off to attend to the newcomers.
Harry checked his watch: 8:30 p.m.
Addressing the orders, he went back to the freezer and took out a tough piece of low grade rib eye steak and a slab of ham. Returning to the grill, he tossed the meat onto the hot surface then scooped up a well-done hamburger patty and onions, placing them on a plate. Adding a fist-full of salty fries and several tomato slices, he slid the plate onto the pick-up counter.
At this point his mind briefly wandered. Troubled by the deja vu, because he
knew there is a body of thought which likens this phenomenon to proof of one's life being endlessly recycled, that one lives it over and over again throughout time. Indeed, some believe that, like the flowers and grasses, Man is locked into a perpetual lifetime of linear reaffirmation and destruction, living his singular, unalterable existence for all eternity.
It was a chilling hypothesis to ponder for one who'd lived as violent and as mean a life as Harry. Yet he'd never accepted this esoteric postulation, knowing we all experience variations of this oddity during our lifetimes. But tonight's deja vu was different; it had brought with it such a powerful sense of dread, such an unearthly premonition of disaster, that this time it shook him to the core.
He eyed the four newcomers, letting his gaze drift over the people in question, watching the homeless man panhandle a cup of coffee, the young lady in scarlet study the menu, the black kid sip coffee, and the elderly woman dump about a pound of sugar in her java. Nothing odd here, but the punk had shifty eyes and “mean streets” etched like a brand on his face. He could be trouble. Was he the one whom Harry feared? For Harry sure as hell feared somebody this night.
When Grace came back with another order, Harry motioned her into the kitchen, which was located behind the twenty-stool counter. "Take over for a minute," he murmured.
"Sure.” She squeezed into the small space and went to work.
Harry removed his apron and chef’s hat and left the kitchen, slipping around the counter and into his small office. Never one to take chances–he'd been a cop for twenty-five years–Harry secreted a Charter Arms .38 Undercover revolver into the generous pockets of his work pants. If something nasty should come down, he wanted to be prepared.
Out on the floor again he tried to strike up a conversation with the pretty girl in scarlet, but she deftly dismissed him, as one would a pesky fly; it hurt Harry's pride. Soundly defeated, he slunk back to the kitchen to relieve Grace.
Later patrol officer Otis Campbell drifted in and took a seat. Harry immediately brightened and walked over to the lanky cop, glad to see additional firepower check in.
"How's it goin', Otis?"
"Just ducky,” grunted Otis with a frown. “Coffee."
Otis was a tall, gawky cop, with a head of wispy orange hair and a perpetual sneer on his face. He was dour of personality and hated his job. Like Harry, he'd suffered similar lifetime indignities: a couple of messy divorces, and a moderate case of alcoholism.
Harry poured the coffee and nervously checked out his diners. The combat-clad panhandler had left.
One down.
The black kid with the big arms and gang regalia was idly toying with his coffee and letting his liquid brown eyes roam the room. He glanced at Harry, then quickly looked away.
Uh-oh. Gotta watch that one.
The grandma, though, was beaming at Harry, her rheumy dark-brown eyes friendly and curious. She beckoned him over. Harry warmed to her smile, deciding to give this senior citizen a little VIP attention. He took the coffee pot with him and strolled down the counter.
"Give you a refill, lady?"
She nodded. "Thanks. Your waitress told me you're an ex-policeman."
He poured. "Yep. Twenty-five years in harness."
"Hmm. Long time."
"You said it. Would you like some pie, maybe? No charge. Just gonna have to throw it out."
She shook her head. "No thanks, but I do appreciate the thought."
"Sure thing." Harry excused himself and went back to talk to Otis, who immediately launched into a laconic rundown of choice precinct gossip.
A few minutes later the attractive woman in scarlet stood up and paid her bill, never once looking in Harry's direction.
And why should she? thought Harry. It had been a long time since plump, fifty-five year-old Harry Caine had enjoyed the come hither glance of a beautiful woman. Two down.
The bands of anxiety surrounding Harry's chest began to loosen. Only the gang-banger and old lady were left. Time passed. Harry's thoughts drifted–
"Wake up, Harry," grunted Otis irritably. "Now listen, you'll love this: Saturday afternoon Peterson's son and that babe he–“ Harry cut him off. "Excuse me, Otis, gotta check somethin' out." He abruptly moved away, deciding if there were going to be trouble he'd better brace the kid while Otis was still in the diner. The punk might be casing the place.
Harry reached into his pocket and gripped the pistol, slipping his finger around the trigger. Sauntering down the counter toward Mr. Mean Streets, he lined up an imaginary field of fire.
Then he noticed that the old woman had left.
Three down.
He reached the kid. "You going to make that coffee last all night, son?"
The young man looked up and scowled. "Somethin' wrong with that, man?"
"No. Just curious."
They locked glances.
Then the gang-banger grunted an obscenity, slapped a buck on the counter, and left without saying a word. But a sardonic chuckle drifted back to Harry as the swaggering hoodlum slouched out the door. Harry was mighty gratified to see the punk’s backside disappear into the dark outside, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief. So much for premonition, precognition, whatever. The crisis was over. "Harry, what in the hell's wrong with you?" snapped Connie, the other waitress, peering at him with a disquieted expression.
"What?"
"You're mighty pale."
“Forget it.” Harry shrugged and motioned her away, then went back to Otis and absorbed some more precinct chit chat. Finally Otis got to his feet with a groan and pulled a buck from his pants pocket.
"Otis, you know your money's no good here."
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Otis put the dollar bill back in his wallet. Giving Harry the victory sign, he left the diner just as a monsoon of high wind and slanting showers came on like a Miami hurricane.
Harry went back to the kitchen and told Grace and Connie to take off, that he'd finish up himself. A few minutes later he glanced over the diner. Empty. He hung the Closed sign and locked the door.
One hour and I'm outta here.
In the office he put away the firearm and began counting the day's receipts. Later, he hit the lights and prepared to leave. During a last look around, he noted, in the dim glow of the night lights, the old lady's grocery bag sitting on the floor, partially hidden under the counter.
Tough luck. He'd put it in the freezer. She'd be back for it in the morning.
Just then there came an insistent rapping on the front door. It was the old woman, soaked and holding together her thin coat with a bony hand. She looked embarrassed.
Harry grinned and opened the door. "Forget something?" he teased.
"Only a week's groceries. I feel so stupid." She pushed by Harry to escape the driving rain.
"No worries, I got `em right here." "Thank God!" She gasped with relief.
"Sit a spell?" offered Harry. "You look cold."
"You're very kind."
"Not at all."
She sat on a stool and rustled around in her bag, coming up with a package of Pall Malls. "Cigarette?"
"No thanks. Quit awhile back."
She found a match and lit up. "Mind?"
"Nope."
Her facial profile, caught in the bright glow of the match, awoke in Harry a vague sense of familiarity. It was just outside the corners of his recollection, but it was there–and for some reason it was not good. That stupid premonition crap, he thought. Still got me spooked.
She puffed away and carefully put her purse on the counter. "You ever work at West Valley Division?" she asked conversationally.
"Yeah. Back in `82. Why?"
"You remember a boy named Dellacroix?"
He stared out the window at the sheeting rain and thought about it. It took a second or two to place him: Chuckie Dellacroix. A punk. Two-time loser. Three-to-five. Cokehead. Claimed he was clean. Of course, we planted him, anyway. He conjured up the kid's face. Wait a sec– He swung around to find himself looking down the short barrel of a Smith & Wesson .38. It didn't waver a micro-inch. “Hey!” Harry's thoughts were reeling. She had to be related to Dellacroix–the domed forehead, dark eyes, the shape of her chin and mouth. Why hadn't he seen it before? “Be careful with that,” he cried.
She ignored him, her eyes alive with malice and hate.
"Look, lady–“
"Shut up!" Her voice was pitched high and with an arctic edge to it. "My Charley was sodomized and murdered at Chino. You put him there. You planted the drugs. He told me."
"Hold it, I–“
"No! You killed him."
Paralyzed, Harry was caught in the web of her malevolent gaze; it was like staring into a deep pit, one without a bottom. It froze his mind.
Suddenly resigned and thinking about the deja vu, he just stood there flat-footed as her eyelids pinched together–the moment she squeezed the trigger.
A flash and a bang and Harry's life winked out. . .
. . .of the silent mist they came, four of them, pushing through the murk, shaking the water from their clothing: a pretty young woman wearing a scarlet raincoat. . .
THE END
Deja Vu first appeared in New Mystery Reader magazine