The night was young but he couldn’t stop paying attention to the restaurant’s variable punctuation. On the plates and cups, and napkins even, it said “Du-Par’s” just like that. The menu claimed it was “Du'Pars” and the font was different. The logo on the computer at the hosting station claimed it was “Du'Par’s” which really threw off everything. He couldn’t remember what the sign was like outside. At any rate, it could have been “Par-Du’s” just to further the set. One is never sure.

The first table where he sat was grainy. Clearly some drunken excitement had occurred at the booth across from it, covering the otherwise set table with a fair amount of salt. Thrown over the shoulder for good luck, perhaps? But how unkind for anyone to throw salt in a restaurant, especially with such longevity. The salt was truly everywhere. He stood, relocated to another table and waited.

It was sort of an alibi, you see. Or for safety. Or for anything. If he had a receipt, and one person remembered his face, then he could not be pinned for the crime he knew was happening. Being aware of a crime is, sure, a crime, but not nearly as much as being involved. Which he was not.

Besides, that asshole had it coming. He made no effort to stop it, but wouldn’t lift a finger in either direction. No aiding, no dissuading. Just being confused by interchangeable punctuation on an old restaurant’s branding.

The food was better at the Vegas location, yeah he believed it. At least there, it wasn’t trying to be something else. This restaurant had existed so long that the city gentrified around it. In a world of Denny’s, Du-Par’s still tried to sell $29 steaks at 4am, the shiny oxblood vinyl booths torn without effort for repair. Salty tables undusted. No soup past midnight. Its sheer continuity was a puzzle to him. Anyway it helped keep his mind off crime.

He smiled and got the $29 steak. Live in the present, right?

It was dry. The air began to smell like a grocery produce aisle, refrigerated and tangy and a little chemical, though not in ways that could be defined. He busied himself comparing the condiment selection of various booths. Ketchup was not guaranteed. Hot sauce had 3 varieties at various tables. That one had a honey bear and nothing else. He couldn’t stop thinking of how it could be this way. that sandwiched by overpriced furniture stores and farm-to-table restaurants and organic quick-lunch business-park establishments that this place even had a chance. He wondered what made Du-Par’s live. He wondered why Leonard had to die.

It was a simple thing, barely worth the bother. Fucking assholes usually get theirs, karma is a bitch and so on and so on. Hell hath no fury, and so forth. The short of it was, Leonard couldn’t be ruined, despite everyone’s best attempts. That untalented fuck had been on the up and up for so long, that it seemed no sabotage or scandal could ever faze him. He just kept going, and kept screwing up everything and everyone he touched. Like it was a superpower. Like his villainy was brash ineptitude. And when his condo became a house then became one of the plentiful million-dollar homes in LA, nobody questioned it. He had a name now, at least within the industry, for reasons that nobody could really understand.

Maybe he just assholed his way into things. Maybe people bought into his braggart boasts. Perhaps they believed that he was as good as he thought himself to be.

What utter horseshit.

Still, tonight Leonard would die and that was that. Because nothing else seemed to work. Because justice is bullshit and patience has an expiration and at some point you’ll have to stop selling your $29 dollar steaks to people at 3am when you have dirty carpet and ripped-up vinyl. Because someday things will close down.

He didn’t think so, though. This place would go on forever, and maybe tonight Leonard would somehow survive. Wasn’t his business. And someone, like his stupid ass, would be the next guy to walk in and buy the damn steak.

He paid, tipped well, and lit a cigarette outside. He imagined flicking a cigarette, and the whole place erupting into flames like it was waiting for the excuse. Like it wanted to go and couldn’t tell anyone. He imagined the mismatched punctuation would be put to rest, the honey bear no longer lonesome on a table.

But Du-Par’s stood vigilant in the night, unaffected by fire or ill-wishes both.
And besides, he needed the people inside to remember his face.