The Diner

“I asked about an Auburn Speedster. Illinois plates, canary yellow. Couldn’t miss it if ya saw it. Ring a bell?”

Uncle Jim tenaciously tongued the cavity in his molar from behind the counter, buying time as he ran through every way this situation could play out in his head. He reeked of bacon grease and sweat, his rolled sleeves exposing an armful of cooking burns.

Three disheveled patrons solemnly etched at the china beneath their blue plate specials with their flatware, awaiting Jim’s response. The eggs on the grill started to sizzle.

“Yes, sir,” Jim began, reluctantly forcing eye contact with the stranger in the black hat across the countertop from him. “I remember you from a few days back.”

“You get alotta deer ‘round here?”

“Headed out on Route Twenty-Three, you do,” Jim confirmed.

The stranger grimaced as he methodically clanked his expensive shoes towards the counter, extending one set of knuckles to the laminate countertop like a brute ape.

“Here’s the problem, bub,” the stranger began as he leaned in and licked his chapped lips. “You got two roads that lead in and outta this shit-hole, and I’ve been driving both of ’em looking for my friend. And you know what I found?”

“No, sir.”

“Skid marks, a buck, that Auburn in pieces and the body of my buddy, bled out in the driver’s seat.”

“I’m sorry to—“

“Headed right out on Route Twenty-Three, like you said. You know what I didn’t find?”

“Sir?” Jim gulped, steadfast.

The stranger leaned back, pulling his overcoat aside to put his hand on his hip, flashing the saddle-leather holster holding a shiny revolver.

“His cargo,” the stranger glared before lowering his voice. “Now… I know what a suitcase like that could do for some backwoods town folk like you. But that little black book? I’m gunna need that. I’mma need that by the time I finish drinking the cup o’ Joe you’re about to pour for me.”

Jim nonchalantly grabbed the coffee pot and poured a cup for the stranger. “There’s cream and sugar—“

“Do I look like I give a damn about your coffee?” the stranger retorted as he snatched the mug and blew on it.

Jim sighed. “Noah, why don’t you come out here.” From the back of the store, a little boy emerged, having spied on this altercation, adjusting his falling suspender and clutching the doorframe with eyes to the floor. The eggs burned.

“Well hey there…” the stranger asked.

“This man would like his numbers book back,” Uncle Jim interrupted. “How about you go get it.” The little boy nodded and returned to the darkened back of the store.

“Your kid?” the stranger asked as he placed the mug on the counter.

Jim shook his head. “My sister’s.”

The stranger turned to walk towards the back. Jim glared at one of his patrons, who gulped and responded with a slow nod. Jim followed the stranger back, hoping to distract.

“He ain’t gonna run.”

“Wouldn’t matter.” The stranger opened the creaky screen door and stepped out onto the back porch. A dilapidated house some fifty paces away, the front door wide open.

“How many in the house?” the stranger asked.

“Just my sister. She’s sick.” Jim explained as he stepped out onto the front porch. The morning air was crisp as the sunlight peered through the budding spring foliage. He noticed a flash of light as the sun caught the edge of the nickel-plated revolver the stranger pulled from his side.

“I’m gonna be wantin’ that suitcase too, fella. And every last dollar in it.”

Jim grimaced before letting out a big sigh. “Did you ever serve?”

“Fifth Marine. Battle of Belleau Wood. You?”

“You ever see combat?” Jim asked as Noah emerged from the house, clutching the ledger in his hand.

“Plenty.”

“Then you’d know to mind your surroundings—“

The click of the hammer. A double-barreled shotgun, from just off the porch. Procured and brandished from one of the diner’s patrons. Noah stopped dead in his tracks.

“Fifth Marine was reserve at the Battle of Belleau Wood,” Jim corrected as he pulled a kitchen knife from his apron. Another patron emerged from the parking lot with a rifle.

The stranger chuckled and shook his head. “You’re right about that. But you have no idea what you’re doing now.”

“We don’t give a damn about your ledger. But you’d be stupid to think we didn’t prepare for you to come back for your twenty thousand dollars,” Jim blurted.

“So you think you’re prepared to deal with the mob and the law now?”

“I am the law,” the patron with the shotgun exclaimed. “And we’re all combat Marines.”

“A shame to think we lose two lives and a couple of fancy cars to deer ‘round here in the same month,” the other patron with the rifle confirmed.

“And it’s a shame that a buck could derail your whole business,” Jim began. “Imagine what a bunch of backwoods folk could do.”