Pulling his hat down over his eyes, the lanky man ducked out of the night and into the back door of a restaurant. Red lights flashed over the door behind him, but quickly moved on.
"Ah, Mr. Ramond, glad you could join us," said a burly gentleman of hefty stature.
The sleekness of his silk tie caused the lanky man to hold his breath. Who was Mr. Ramond supposed to be?
Still, he was here, and out of the sight of any cops. Putting on his best poker face, he snapped up the seat across from the larger man.
"No place else I wanna be," the lanky man started. He wasn't refined, but he wasn't sure he needed to be. The owner seemed rich enough. But from the screaming short order cooks and messy counters, the restaurant was far from being worthy of 5 stars.
The restaurant was still open. Way too many witnesses.
He'd never been there, so he didn't know what kind of food they served. Just his luck. But if this was an interview, how hard could it be to fake it for a bit?
The chef slammed an artichoke on the table, right in front of the lanky man.
"Your reputation proceeds you, but we cater to people with very particular tastes, Mr. Ramond. This has been the finest restaurant east of the harbor for over 5 years now, and we intend to keep it that way. You will show me how you would cook this artichoke in a gluten-free, dairy-free, soy-free Capellini, WITH NO nightshades and I swear on my mother's grave that if you sully my olive oil with any spices that come from anywhere other than the old country you'll never work in this town again. Shall we get started?" He ended with a grin.
The lanky man opened his mouth and closed it again. Sighing, he got out of the chair and went out the back door without another word.
The police were still searching the area, and tackled him almost as soon as he got out the door, much to the surprise of the chef inside.
The lanky man was going back to prison. Though after that short interview, he was willing to accept his fate. At least prison food made sense to him.