They have the meats

Hansen tried to forget the last time he’d been in an Arby’s.

The memory was nearly there with the first bite of the roast beef sandwich, got closer after the curly fries, then swam into full focus when he took a sip of the Jamocha shake.

It was after the Murray thing.

Murray was one of the good ones.

Hansen had always thought so.

Then Clark played them the tape.

If Murray had been one of the good ones, he’d stopped long before that tape started rolling.

A good one would never do what he’d seen Murray do.

Which meant Hansen and Jensen were up.

It was their turn, and Clark liked having them work together.

Called them Heckle and Jeckle.

Made no sense to Hansen.

Seemed to amuse Clark.

It was better if Clark was amused.

He was either amused or angry.

Angry Clark wasn’t funny to anyone.

Since it was their turn, then, Hansen and Jensen took care of the Murray thing.

And since it was all in-house, they got to be quiet about it.

Hansen liked the quiet jobs.

More plastic, but a lower chance of anyone looking too closely at it.

The loud jobs meant civilians.

You had to make a point with civilians, Clark said.

But the quiet jobs, that was just housekeeping.

Making sure things were tidy.

Clark could rage, but he did appreciate tidy.

So did Hansen.

Jensen, too, except when it came to his car.

Hansen never understood that, how someone like Jensen could keep his car like he did.

The outside was always pristine, hand waxed weekly, but he never let anyone touch the inside.

He’d shrugged when Hansen asked him about it.

“I guess we all need a place to be messy. This is mine.”

Hansen nodded like he understood.

After they were done with the Murray thing, Jensen said they should eat, pulled into an Arby’s.

Didn’t ask what Hansen wanted.

They went inside, ordered, sat down.

Neither of them spoke until after Jensen had swallowed the first bite of his sandwich.

“You know why I like this place?”

Hansen shook his head, because that was expected, and acceptable.

“The honesty.

“’We have the meats’.

“No claims about how much better it is, or fresher, just telling you like it is.

“Probably full of the same fillers and chemicals as everywhere else.

“Doesn’t matter.

“’It’s meat. We have that.’

“That’s a slogan you can mean, you know? Really get behind.

“Maybe it should have been that: ‘Arby’s - we mean meat.”

Then he went back to eating, and they finished their meal in silence.

Jensen was a talker, especially after they worked a job like the Murray thing.

Hansen didn’t think much about it, because we all have days, right? Moments when things aren’t quite aligned with the rest of the universe, and we move on from those.

They did some other work together after that, and Jensen was his usual talkative self, before, during, and after.

Then Clark had called Hansen.

Told him to not bring Jensen.

Played him a tape.

Jensen and Murray.

“Take Drexler,” Clark said. “And make it loud.”

That meant civilians in the audience.

Clark needed someone to know he knew about Jensen and Murray.

He’d never worked with Drexler before, but he was all right.

Not as good as Jensen.

“I’ll give him credit, he didn’t beg,” Drexler said.

“Can’t remember the last time I was in an Arby’s, though.

“You come here a lot?”

Hansen shrugged, took another bite of his sandwich.

He knew he couldn’t explain it to Drexler.

Wasn’t sure he could explain it to himself.

Honesty.

He was hoping to find more of that.

Sincerity.

Something not just real, but repeatable.

A constant he could hold on to.

He’d given up on that being a person, even though Jensen had come close.

The closest anyone had come in a long time.

He felt old, tired.

“Gotta love these shakes, though,” Drexler said.

Hansen nodded at that, took another bite of his sandwich, then set it down on his tray, looking at it.

“Meats,” he said.

Drexler chewed a little slower, eyebrows cocked.

It was the first thing Hansen said since they’d left Clark’s office on the way to the Jensen thing.

Clark had told him Hansen was quiet, so he wasn’t sure what to say next, wondering what was expected, or acceptable.

“They have the meats,” Hansen said, then chuckled.

“Does that make them honest, do you think?

“Mean what they say and all?”

Drexler shook his head, chewing even more slowly.

“I don’t know, man, I mean, it’s an Arby’s, right? Not exactly a philosophy roundtable, is it?”

Hansen nodded, then pushed his chair back, headed to the counter, drink in hand.

Drexler turned around when he heard someone scream.

Hansen had his gun out, pointing it at the head of the kid behind the counter.

Drexler got up, standing behind Hansen, reaching for his own gun.

“Hansen? We good?”

Hansen ignored him, stayed facing the kid.

“Did you mean it?”

The kid was blubbering, shaking his head, trying to say something.

“I’ll ask you again, did you mean it?”

“Mean…what?” the kid managed to blurt out.

“When we got here, you said, ‘Welcome to Arby’s’. Remember that?”

The kid nodded like it was his job.

“Did…you mean it? Do you want us to feel welcome here?”

The kid hadn’t stopped nodding, and then Hansen was looking at the gun in his hand.

Seemed surprised to see it there.

He put it away, walked out to the car.

Drexler followed, hoping they’d get out of there before the cops showed up.

Blocks passed in silence.

“What the fuck?” Drexler said.

Hansen said nothing, kept looking out the window.

He’d miss Arby’s.

They had the meats.

That had to mean something.