Later Bill would remember his second night in the workhouse when the tough approached him. He would remember the tough asking him what he was in for. He’d remember his answer, the answer that rolled off the tip of his tongue without him ever thinking about it.
“Assault and battery.”
“Who’d you beat up?” the tough asked. “Your wife?”
“A cop,” Bill said, upon which the tough had looked at him, thought a moment then backed off.
Bill would remember that his first thought was God had put those words into his mouth. He could never have thought of them on his own. He would never have thought of them on his own. God had spoken. God was good.
Well, God had shown himself again and God had spoken for him again, only this time he’d spoken in the form of an action.
When things like this happen, time gets screwed up. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion but really only a few seconds transpired. The whole interplay between Jim and Bill lasted less than half a minute, probably more like fifteen seconds and a big part of those seconds was the pause when they stood staring at each other.
Even before the stare-down Paul, Mickey and Esserine were aware of what was happening. They were frozen. They’d frozen at the sound of Jim’s voice. Esserine thought to run for help, but she dared not move, afraid her movement would upset the balance. Paulie and Mickey stood still, the dish machine still working.
Expressionless, Jim took a step forward. Bill cocked the pot, preparing to throw the hot grease. Poker faced, Bill locked his eyes on Jim’s.
But God wasn’t finished with Bill just yet. At the height of the stare-down, Jim with the knife in hand, Bill with the heavy stock pot filled with scalding French-fry grease in hand, the grease about 350 degrees Fahrenheit, the automatic doors opened and Bebe stepped in with her dinner plate. She was about to put it by the dishwasher. She also held a pitcher of soda and she was starting to say “Hi all, I got you some…” But her last words trailed off because being as sharp as any of the knives, Bebe quickly assessed the situation and shrewdly turned and exited the kitchen.
Jim knew it was over now. He backed off slowly, dropped the knife to the floor, uttered incomprehensible chatter under his breath.
Bill watched the knife bounce up in the air off the rubber mats. When it landed, he set down the grease pot but stood by it waiting for Tommy. He did not relax until Tommy had taken Jim downstairs to change clothes, and then, with purpose, he went through the dining room to the bar, drank down two double bourbons which Bebe gladly poured for him.
Back in the kitchen, he picked up the knife, sheathed it, drank another beer then went to work on the second fryer, finishing it as quickly as he could. While he was working, Tommy came up and escorted Jim out of the kitchen through the doors to the side dining room. He was taking Jim to the office where he would keep him until a taxi arrived and he could send him off back to downtown Columbus.
“It was only a matter of time,” Tommy said later.
“I did my best,” said Bill. “I tried not to get him canned. God knows I know what it’s like to need a job.”
“Wasn’t anything you did or could have done. Don’t take it on yourself.”
Tommy drew himself a coffee before he left the kitchen. Standing over by the coffee urns, near to Esserine, he stood a moment and sipped his coffee. He took in the whole of the kitchen, all of which he could see from where he stood.
