Vache d'Or - part C

This is the third part of Vache d'Or, a short story I'm serializing on this blog. Posting this is somewhat awkward because you must read the previous two entries to get up to date in the story. Please comment
below.

“Then why are you marrying Charlene?” Matt asked.

“Hell if I know.” Frank ran his tongue across his front teeth. “I guess because she asked me. And she got that big insurance policy.” He smiled into the mirror, certain his teeth were reasonably clean. “CeeCee, my vache d’or.”

“Fashion door?” Matt asked.

“No. It’s French. Vache d’or. Cash cow.”

Matt’s mouth dropped open. Frank said, “Shit! Wait. Really it means cow of gold, not that CeeCee’s a cow. It’s just a term of endearment. French.”

Matt closed his mouth, smirked, shook his head, chugged his coffee after cooling it with too much two per cent, and took off for work.

Frank had almost two hours before he opened the deli, and he knew the cleaner had finished and Jason would sleep till at least noon. He opened his cell and dialed. “Take your break yet?” He nodded and waved his hands around even though he knew the gestures didn’t show up through the telephone. “Yep. Right now.” He folded the phone and set it on the counter next to the coffee pot. He lifted one arm and then another and sniffed his pits. He brushed his graying hair and put in drops to clear his eyes, smiled at the bathroom mirror to double check his hair, found a couple of condoms, and took off, optimistic.

At the diner on the corner, Toni poured him a cup of coffee. “You want one of my sweet rolls?” she asked. She licked her lips and leaned over so her breasts jiggled in his face. They were enough to smother a man, especially a thin one like Frank.

“I’d like a sweet roll with you. Ready for your break? We just have time for a quickie.” Frank took a sip of coffee.

Toni sighed. “In the back of the deli again?”

“It’s not so bad. It’s got a couch. And a shower.” Frank took another sip. “It’s a lot more comfortable than the back seat of my Accord - or your fuckin’ bicycle.”

Toni glanced over Frank’s head at the clock by the door. Nine thirty. She glanced around the diner. No “guests” at any of her stations. “It’ll take me five minutes.” She rang his bill up at the cash register by the door and pocketed his meager tip, then untied the strings on her apron while Frank ducked into the alley and unlocked the back door to the deli.

“Bonnie?” Toni called to the other server. “I’m going on break. Be back in a few.” She stepped out the back door and trotted down the alley to Frank waiting for her.

Eighteen and a half minutes later, damp tendrils of red hair stuck to her forehead, she dashed back into the diner. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” she whispered to the wrinkled cook leaning against a counter. “Quickies just ain’t as quick as they used to be.”

“Course not. Your men get older and older.” The cook’s laugh shattered her face like black glass.