Noodles At The Drunken Tapir

My favorite restaurant, The Drunken Tapir, was under construction, and I loved it more than ever. Usually it was a dimly-lit, rundown cafe that smelled like good food and bad decisions. Now it was torn apart for remodeling, so it looked even more like the inside of my soul. It was even darker now, except for the usual bright neon signs for beers (I think; I couldn't read the language) and a couple of work lights in the corner. The door to the kitchen had been removed so we got a little bit of light from that as well. Most of the booths were ripped out, and temporary folding tables and chairs were set up. A TV in the corner showed a soccer game between Malacca and Johor; two countries I never even heard of. But I didn't come here to catch up on sports. This place had the best yellow noodles in the city. 

I had seen the plans for the remodel. Mr. Jahni, the owner, wanted to make a bright, sanitized, generic, so it would appeal to the Americans. I had voiced my disagreement; I came here because I could eat in peace. Not that it was quiet; I just couldn't understand any of the languages the other diners were speaking. "What's next," I scoffed, "regular hours?"

I worked late, and the place was always open when I got off. After a long day on a case, I was usually sick of the outside world and this dingy little eatery felt honest. I unraveled lies for a living, and this place wasn't pretending to be something it's not. Unlike the rest of us.

It had been a better day, though. I had tracked down the hiding place of a family will that would have restored the kids' inheritance so the stepfather couldn't run off with it and stick them in an orphanage. What a jerk. I'd also made it look like he was the one behind it all; even though he was a mostly just an idiot. Still, he'd been about to run off with all the money and again, orphanage, so he was still an ass. Once I had uncovered the final draft of the will hidden in the urn containing the ashes of the family pony (one Neighomi Trots,) I had pinned the blame on him and the cops took him away. I still charged full price. Ponies are small horses but they're still pretty big, and I had to sift through a lot of ashes to find that will. Anyway, I didn't know who actually tried to hide the will in the pony's urn, so it could have been him.

Didn't really matter to me now. The kids would be taken care of. That guy would go to jail. I'd get paid. The pony would still be dead. 

Things would get better for the ones who deserved it, or at least the ones who were left.

I don't know when the renovations will be done. But I'll probably stop coming here when they are. It'll be too...bright. My job needs me to maintain a certain disposition. Once you stop seeing the worst in people, it's time to quit being a detective. 

But I wouldn't have to worry about that tonight. Tonight, I'd sit alone in the dark, surrounded by laughing people I don't understand, and I'd enjoy another bowl of the best yellow noodles in the city. 

THE END