Charles and his kid brother weren’t scared of the storm. They knew it was just wind and rain and noise, like a little dog barking its head off from behind a fence.

While all the other kids at Saint Peter’s orphanage cowered in their bunks, he and his brother had free run over all the best toys in the playroom. It was the only thing that made up for being cooped up inside while it poured.

But as they rounded the corner into the play room, they were too late.

The five Insenotti sisters had already claimed the playroom for their own. The sisters said they were descended from Italian nobility, and lorded over the rest of the orphans enough that some kids believed them.

Leo, never one for subtlety, stomped forward and demanded the girls leave.

The eldest Insenott sister stood up from the floor, towering over the brothers. Charles heard Leo gulp.

“Beat it, peasant,” she growled “And maybe, I won’t crack your head like eggs for an omelette!”

Leo looked back at Charles and mouthed “A what?”, but Charles was equally baffled and just shrugged awkwardly. They had no idea what an omelette was, but it sounded painful.

Memphis Note
For over a hundred years Saint Peter’s orphanage was a bastion of safety for wayward and abandoned children in Memphis. The orphanage was part of Saint Peter’s church, whose nuns stayed to treat the sick during the Yellow Fever epidemic. The church is still open, although the orphanage has been moved to a third party.

“I did it again. Why did I do it again?” I looked over at Matt, eyes blood shot, his lower lids puffy and sagging from lack of sleep.

Matt didn’t respond, instead kept counting out the till, scribbling bits of numbers on a napkin. I looked out through the glass front of the P&H Cafe. The city had long since fallen asleep. It was the part of the night when no one awake was up to any sort of good.

“Thanks for letting me hang out for a bit.” I said, nursing water in a plastic cup.

“No problem.” He responded, flat and even.

I regarded him for a moment. “Man, you must deal with a lot working here. Drunks. The bathrooms. Shitty music.” I pointed at him. “Any of it ever get to you?”

“Only one thing’s ever bothered me.” He counted while he talked. “Some British guy came through once. Had a few too many, mouthed off. Tried to fight me when I told him to go. When I wouldn’t, he spit on me and called me a ‘poltroon’.”

“I could see how that could get to you.”

He stopped counting. “Yeah. What the hell’s a poltroon?”

Memphis Note
The P&H is the quintessential Midtown neighborhood bar. And its bartender, Matt, is a fixture. I swear the man sees so little sunlight he’s translucent. But if you come in there more than once, he’ll know your name. Matt’s one of the good ones.

Oh, and poltroon? It means coward.