She said, man, there's really something wrong with you.
One day you're gonna self-destruct.
You're up, you're down, I cant work you out
You get a good thing goin then you blow yourself out[1]

Breakfast & Paranoia

About a week after the detectives left my house I got a call from Candy. The cops had questioned her and she wanted to talk. She suggested we meet and was going to drive up from Pompano to meet me at the Palm Cafe. Candy was always early.  "The early bird catches the worm," she would preach, "and eighty percent of the population is either late or show up at the clock . . . and that's why you have to always be early.” I have heeded her lessons well.  I knew she'd be there by 10 till 8 so I arrived at 20 till.

The Palm Cafe is a small unpretentious restaurant that sits along U.S. 1 in Delray Beach: This strip of highway often referred to as South Dixie, or just Dixie by the older locals.  If you were driving through town and not aware of The Palms "Traditional Home Cooking" you'd probably drive right past, not noticing the small three foot by four foot sign overhanging the roof, decorated with a carved blue and green wooden palm tree protruding from its top.  And if you did see the sign you might just skip going in, due to the common notion expressed by most tourist: it's not fast enough, no drive though, it's probably expensive, and there should be a McDonalds just down the road.  This was just fine with me and with most locals that frequented the place and appreciated its mom and pop identity. 

Candy and I respected the lifelong dedication of the owners: a Greek immigrant, George—his last name’s spelling escapes me—and his wife Josephine who opened the place in 1967.  George once told me how busy the place was when he first started out, when “flocks of Yankee tourist,” he would say, were traveling down U.S. 1 heading to Miami. He told me once the mid 70's were rough on business and that he considered closing down the place when I-95 was completed and rerouted most of the traffic a couple miles west.

Being fortunate, to at the least have the locals frequent the place, things eventually got better.  Many gays recognized the potential of the local real estate and starting buying and fixing up the many small Ross style homes that were spread through the local neighborhoods. Stylish boutiques and shops would follow and George and Josephine’s cooking, generous portions, and reasonable prices—as well as the absence of tourist—would capture the attention of the new locals.  I heard George once remark in his Greek accent, "The fagsa they a lovea my cooking, so they okay with me.".

It was humid that morning, like most mornings in South Florida—other than three days in January. As I stepped from my car onto the shell rock parking lot of the Palm I could feel sweat quickly soak my forehead. I crossed the lot towards the two cypress teal-painted doors leading into The Palm and stopped before going in at the corner of the building to have a smoke.

Loud humming was coming from the roof.  I considered, Probably the large air condition units George had installed to keep himself cool through the many hours he labored in the steaming kitchen.

I heard approaching voices and turned to see two men coming around the corner. They were both wearing sunglasses and when they saw me they stopped speaking, looked straight ahead, and entered the restaurant. They were both wearing white pristine t-shirts that appeared brand new and may have just come off the rack. On the back of one shirt, was a sailfish and on the other a shark. They both had matching tan cargo paints; also very clean and appearing brand new, while both were wearing worn tennis shoes—one guy in white, without socks, and the other guy in black with socks. I really didn't think that much of it . . . at first.

When I walked inside, I wasn't surprised by the frigid blast of cool air that engulfed my dampened clothes and forehead. That's how George liked it. I was also met by the overwhelming smell of bacon and potatoes, I'm sure George was cooking. A small metal sign before me read, PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED.  It was still early—the business people heading to work didn’t pack the Palm until around 8:30.  Josephine was cleaning a table when she heard the bell above the door and noticed me walk in.  She gestured towards some vacant tables as if to say, sit wherever you want. 

The place had the usual cast of characters: a few seniors drinking coffee and exchanging stories of WW II, a few gays that had probably been out for a morning jog and were grabbing breakfast before a quick shower and heading to there boutiques, and some of the old Florida natives, with burnt crimson skin in frayed cargo pants or bathing trunks, wearing flip flops or Top Siders. The two guys, wearing the pristine white shirts with the shark and sailfish on them, were sitting at the bar.

I made my way to the front of the place where the glass windows, over looking Dixie Highway, were decorated with mini-blinds. The windows had fogged from where the outside humidity met George's need to keep the place in a constant chilled Siberian state.  The eastern morning light was softened from the misted windows, and as I turned and sat down with the windows to my back I noticed how the light poured in exposing the restaurant with an angelic-like diffused glow.

Josephine was already dropping a menu on my table.  "Coffee. Mr. Handsome?" she said. Greeting me as she had always had.

"Yes, please. Thank you"

She looked across the room to an older waitress and yelled, "Marlene, coffee."

Marlene acknowledged with a friendly wave.
"Chugar and cream," she asked, still carrying her Greek accent after 40 years in the states.  She gave me a friendly smile.

"Just black," I said.

“Ah, yes. I forget. You haven’t been here in a while.”

“I’ve been busy,” I replied

"Do you know what you want?"

"I'm waiting for someone."

She gave me a wink and said, " A lady, I bet."

I smiled back, "Yes, a lady."

"I knew it.  I can tell by looking at you," she grinned and winked again.

I smiled not knowing if she was being sincere and flattering me, or this was a just a line she often used to keep George and her in business for so long.  I took it as sincere.

"We're just friends," I grinned flirtingly and gave her a wink. "You have no reason to be jealous."

She laughed.  "Okay."

As Josephine was turning to exit, Marlene had made her way to the table and set down a cup and poured me a coffee. Marlene pulled a pad from her apron.

"I'm waiting on someone."

"No problem," she said, pulling from her apron various packs of multi-colored sugar packs. 

"Cream?"

"No thank you, I'm fine"

"Let me know when your ready to order." She smiled, and went to a nearby table to wipe it down.

I glanced up again to the two men sitting at the counter. They continued to stare forward and at the far end of the counter sat a boy and a girl, I guessed about 13 or 14. The young girl had her arm around the boy and her head on his shoulder. The boy glanced around the room as if to see if anyone was watching and then he quickly kissed her on the cheek reminding me of my days with Rita.

I hadn't stopped in the Palm in a number of months, having been busy with my edit (as well as the disposal of a rather large lady critic). Nothing had changed.  In fact, the Palm probably looked the same as it did when George and Josephine opened it 40 years ago.  The walls were a light blue and mostly covered with plastic lattice decorated with olive branches and small interwoven white Christmas lights; some on some burnt out. The tables were basic-black laminated tops, and the chair’s seats and backs a black vinyl with gold anodized tubed legs supporting the oval backs.  On the walls were pictures of places in Greece with no two frames the same.  Customers didn't come to the Palm for its decorum. They came for the non-stop refills of coffee and water, the generous over-flowing portions of food, and the friendly service that made you feel you weren't just a customer but a friend who had stopped by to say hello. People came because it wasn't the new Florida of fast foods, rude service, and stupid prices. They came because George and Josephine were like parents to all the customers and this place was their family.

I often had a cup of coffee or two, or a chat, with many of the locals. No one here ever seemed to care about a person’s past. It may have been because most people that came here had a skeleton or two in their closet.  Something they were not proud of and had tried to forget, or deny.  They were ex-drug runners, alcoholics, dope smokers, and there were ones that may have fought too much or been divorced a few times. The Palm was kind of a place of neutrality and forgiveness at least that is how I saw it; where no one was any better than anyone else.  There was no judging self-righteous arrogance here and maybe that is why Candy so often chose it when we would meet.

Candy’s life had changed drastically over the years. Her days as a super star in the adult entertainment business ended quickly after a miscarriage she had in the nineties. A strong lady, she handled it well and moved on, and in the years that followed became deeply religious. I got the impression she wanted to forget her past as a "porn star." Who knows? She brought me to her church a few times—maybe hoping I’d find redemption as perhaps she had. To my surprise, the people that she introduced me to were different than I assumed. I expected pious, sanctimonious assholes, and often found sincere, charitable, nonjudgmental men and women. Although this was an awakening for me, it was not for me—my mother’s thoughts on god often resonating in my subconscious beliefs. As for Candy I saw her differently than how she often came across. Don’t get me wrong she was a very strong lady, but underneath her often-confident persona, I felt there was a little girl seeking acceptance. Maybe it was just me . . . and that may have lead to Gloria being shot.

I could see George in the smoke filled kitchen through the server window.  He set two plates on the stainless counter's opening.  A waitress immediately picked the food up, turned, and placed it in front of the shark and sailfish customers at the bar.  George spotted me and gave me a friendly nod. By the expression on his face, I could tell he probably had forgotten my name, but he did remember my face. He came out of a nearby stainless door and stopped to speak with the shark and sailfish guys.  From the way George extended his hand to shake theirs, I got the impression they were new to the place.

I heard the bell above the entrance door ring as Candy entered.  She was still as beautiful as when I first met her 20 years earlier. Her blonde hair had speckled signs of graying; it pulled under a blue handkerchief, and her light bronze skin fashioned from her love of the sun. Her body was still that of a model, probably from the long jogs she took along the Atlantic.  She wore a red halter that supported her inviting breast, a flannel shirt and a pair of worn jeans. A newspaper was tucked under her arm. When she entered most of the men turned to look.  It was as if Sharon Stone or Madonna had entered the room.  Even the gay men were enamored by her natural wholesome beauty and unpretentious attire.  No one would have thought this woman was, Candy Favors, one of the most popular porn queens of the late 80’s . . . perhaps instead believing her to be the grown sweet innocent girl from next door.

As she crossed the room towards me, I could see George in the corner of my eye moving our way.

"Harry," she said, "you look terrific."

I had put on some weight since the last time I'd seen her, but I accepted the compliment all the same.

I stood up and hugged her, holding her longer than perhaps I should have. 

"It's good to see you." I said.  And it was.  This was the woman that cared when no one else did.  This is the woman that took me in when I was lost and homeless. I continued to hold her and I could feel the release of emotions I had been holding back for the last six months while completing my last film.  I felt her velvety lips kiss my cheek. Her perfume smelled of jasmine.

"It's good to see you, Harry."

As I released her I realized George was standing beside her holding out a chair. "Miss Candy, it is always so good to you come to my place," he said.

"It is always so good to be here," she said graciously.

She sat down in the chair placing the newspaper she had carried in, on to the table.

I noticed a small silver cross hanging from her neck.

"Marlene, coffee," George demanded in that Mediterranean hubris that has mostly disappeared in this country.

Marlene came over.

"Hey, Marlene, how is your family?" Candy asked sincerely.

"They’re doing well, thank you for asking." Marlene smiled and gave George a look as if to say: See she is my friend, too.

"Decaf, light cream, no sugar, right?" Marlene smiled.

"Yes. You remembered. Thank you Marlene."

George seemed to be slightly bothered that he didn't know how Candy took her coffee and Marlene did.

Candy understood.  She smiled at me.

"So, George, how is your family. Two boys I believe?"

"My boy George he just give-ah me another grandson." George replied.  "And ah Frankie, he just a pass-ah the bar."

"A lawyer?" Candy smiled "I'm impressed."

What type of law does he practice?" I interrupted, considering I may be needing one.

Candy gave me a questioning look.

"Real Estate . . . and now I am officiallia broke." George smiled.

"And how is your lovely wife?" Candy asked.

George glanced across the room to where Josephine was clearing a table.  She was perhaps once beautiful, but her sixty plus years of existence and nonstop work was catching up.

"She a real-ah pain in the ass-ah.  She drive uh-me crazy." George said.  "Tell me miss Candy." George leaned in.

"If I was-ah to divorce my wife, do you think I would have a chance with-ah you?" George gave his best suave machismo-stare, his eyebrows slightly lifting and his eyes saying you can take advantage of me if you wish.

Some of the water I was drinking partially shot from my nose as I held back a small laugh while disguising it as a cough.

Candy turned to me, brow raised, as if to say, watch it, he'll be cooking our breakfast.

Candy looked back up to George.  "Maybe, but I don't think a lovely woman like your wife would let such a handsome man go."

George's expression turned to serious as he spoke, "What if I kill her?"

Candy and I were not sure how to react. Was he serious? I contemplated my own situation with the deceased Gloria. Would another man kill for this woman?

George laughed. "I am justtah joking," he smiled looking over to Josephine.  "I love that crazy woman too much-ah, beside-uh she pretty good-ah wit a knife and would probably kill-ah me first."

Candy laughed.

"What would-ah you lik-ah for breakfast?"  George asked.

"One strip of bacon, one egg over easy, a tall glass of tomato juice . . . and a small portion of potatoes, and please, not like last time."

"Are you watching your figure, because I know I am-ah," George grinned his eyebrows lifting.

"Stop, George.  People will talk." Candy laughed.

"And what can I get this lucky gentleman?" he asked.

"Double what she’s having, but with orange juice." I said.

George walked towards the kitchen.

Candy appeared slightly distant as she glanced around the room. Marlene poured her a cup of coffee, refilled mine, gave Candy a friendly smile and then walked to another table. 

I realized Candy had been keeping her right hand under the table the entire time.

"How's the hand?" I asked.

She brought it up to the table.  The pinky was bent in towards the wrist and the ring finger curled and twisted toward the palm, her middle finger and index ever so slightly curving down as if to holding an invisible cigarette.  She had Dupuytren: a rare disease that afflicts the hands.  It was similar to having arthritis but far more arduous.

"I have an appointment with a specialist in Jupiter this morning." She said. "We can't all be perfect." She smiled.  "And it could always be a lot worst.  I can still do this." She held up her middle finger and gave me the bird.

I smiled, "Hand problem or not, you're still a knock-out"

"Thanks, Harry.  So how have you been?" she asked while reaching out with her left hand and placing it over my right.

"Great," I said.  "I'm working on a book . . . my memoirs . . . If anyone really cares."

"I'd love to read it, Harry," she smiled. "Am I in it?" Her enthusiasm like that of a young actor getting her first paying gig.

"Of course you are.  You show up late, but you are the most . . ." I hesitated, but she would understand. " . . . the second most important person in the book."

"Always second best with you," she laughed. "I can accept that, Harry."

"How far along are you?"

"Actually only to this moment in time." I glanced around the room.

"And where from here?" she asked.

"I'm not really sure.  I’ve had about a fifty thousand hits on Convent Virgins.  Maybe it will have a happy ending."

She smiled.  "I'm very proud of you. You've come so far."

"Ah, gosh, thanks, ma," I joked.

She squeezed my hand.  "You've never been very good with flattery have you? I mean it, Harry. You should be proud of yourself."

She glanced at my top pocket that held my cigarettes.

"Except for those. When are you going to give them up?” She asked.

"I've given them up a few times." I smiled.

"Seriously, Harry."

"Next week," I said.

I knew what she was getting out.  I had speculated over the last two years, considering the number of times she had gone to see different doctors around the Southeast—the possibility of her having cancer that is. She never smoked as long as I had known her, but she had been around a lot of smokers. She also once told me both of her parents had died from cancer. Just call it a hunch. She would never admit it, but I had considered it a number of times. I also knew she realized it was futile trying to persuade me to quit.

“The police came to my place; asking about Gloria Thebolt. You knew she was missing. Right?” She asked.

I looked around the room and caught the shark and sailfish guys looking in our direction—then turning away.

Was I paranoid? I questioned. I shook it off. "

What?" I said, acting dumb.

"She’s dead, Harry.” Candy replied.

"I had heard something." I replied, picking up my coffee and sipping it. 

Candy looked at me for a moment.  She knew this was a lie, or at least something in that beautiful head of hers was questioning why I was so nonchalant about this woman that we both couldn't stand.

"I've been busy with my edit," I blurted.  "How do you know she's dead?"

Candy laid the newspaper in front me.  In the top corner of page 6B of the Sun Sentinel a small headline read: Remains Identified as That Of Critic . . . 

As I read the article about Gloria's remains, Candy spoke, “She wrote an article criticizing me. From what the police said. It viciously attacked me, and my current life with the church . . . Calling me a hypocrite and even insulting many good people that had nothing to do with my past. How could someone be so cruel?”

I was finishing the last line of the article. Hmm, I considered. With so many people wishing her dead, it would be tough to narrow the investigation down to anyone person.

"Well, that's good," I said aloud, forgetting Candy was just across the table.

"What is, Harry?" Candy asked.

I glanced up again to the various characters around the restaurant.

"That they identified the body."  I looked towards the shark and sailfish guys who were looking across the bar and not in my direction. Maybe they're just fisherman, I thought. But, where are their tans?

“I think I’m a suspect, Harry.”

“What?” I asked.

“They asked me a lot of questions. They said I wanted her dead because of the article. I think they really think I would do such a thing.” She shook her head.

“FUCK!” I blurted. A few patrons turned to us.

Candy stopped and looked at me for a moment.

Man, I fucked this up! My mind skewered by my own ignorance. I made this worst.

“You could go to jail.” I said. “Too prison.”

“Harry, I’m not going to jail. I didn’t kill her.”

I quickly interjected, “I know you didn’t kill her . . . And I’ll make sure you don’t go to jail.”

What did I just say?

Candy gave me an inquisitive look.

Oh, shit, am I about to tell her I did it for her and then tell the police?

I looked over at the guys at the bar.  They sat silently staring forward.

“I know you would help, Harry, if you could. But don’t worry about it. I was out of town. They are plenty of people that can verify it. The police will see that. Don’t you remember? I was out of the country. In South America. You remember. I called you before I left.”

Oh shit! That’s right. I almost totally fucked up. I felt a sigh of relief.
"Oh, yeah." I said, shifting my eyes to the guys at the bar. They still stared straight ahead.

“Have you been taking your medication, Harry? Candy smiled.

“Yeah, okay. I can’t help being concerned for you.”

"You're sweet, Harry . . . Crazy, but sweet." She smiled, while squeezing my hand. "That's what I've always loved about you."

Marlene stepped into my view.  She set down our breakfast plates.  Potatoes fell from the over generous mound of potatoes George had piled on Candy's dish.  My plate and potatoes the standard issue.

Candy looked at her plate and then my meager portion.

“And I can’t help being concerned for you.” She smiled.

She lifted her plate and with her fork raked the majority of her home fries on to my plate. 

“Why thank you, young lady.” I grinned while nodding.

As I lifted a potato to my mouth, I glanced back up to the shark and the sailfish guys. They were still locked in a gaze straight ahead. 

What are they staring at? My mind scrambling for an answer . . .

I looked to the wall in front of them where a large mirror hung. I could see their reflection and their eyes fixed on our table.

---

[1] Ray Davies _ The Kinks - Destroyer