I Always Worry About Fried Chicken

“Wait, stay seated. Order more coffee for us.”

“Okay, Pete, but why? The place is right around the corner.”

“See that woman across the street to the left?”

“Yeah, what about her?”

“She’s been standing there for 9 minutes, and the guy in front of the 7/11 with the newspaper’s been trying to read it for 11 minutes. The winds a problem, but he keeps trying.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t like this. It’s too pat, feels like a setup.”

“But how? We haven’t told anyone.”

“I don’t know. Stay here and order coffee, I’m going to walk over to the 7/11 and get a pack of cigarettes. That’ll give me a glance past the jewelers.”

“Okay. Waiter, bring us...”
*****

“Okay, we’re in trouble here. There’s cops everywhere. We’re going to drink the coffee, tell a few jokes and laugh. Then we’ll order a couple things to go, like we’re taking it home to the wife.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter! For gods sake, it’s not like we’re going to ear it, they're props.”

“Okay. I think I’ll get a couple steaks, but I intend to eat what I get.”

“Whatever! Waiter — 2 of your fried chicken dinners to go, please.”

“I’ll have 2 of the t-bones with baked, medium rare please and to go too.”

“Now lean back and relax, pretend you’re having a good time.”

“Can I have your chicken?”

“What?”

“Your fried chicken, you said you’d throw it away, I like fried chicken too.”

“Jesus, Floyd, how the hell can you worry about my chicken right now?”

“I always worry about fried chicken, it’s a favorite.”

“Then why’d you order steak?”

“It’s a favorite too.”

“If we get out of here, it’s yours. Now laugh like it’s a joke.”

“How much longer? I’m hungry.”

“Why me, god.”