Chapter 5 - The Closing Shift
By midnight, the diner was finally empty.
The trucker in booth two had paid his tab and driven off into the storm, leaving behind only a crumpled napkin and a greasy coffee mug.
Ethan stood behind the counter, unfastening his stained apron and tossing it into the canvas laundry hamper. His arms ached, his feet throbbed in his canvas sneakers, and a dull, pulsing headache was forming right behind his eyes.
Mr. Henderson walked out of his office, rattling a ring of heavy brass keys.
"Closing time, Callahan," Henderson announced loudly, not even bothering to look up. "Make sure the back door is double-bolted and the mop bucket is emptied outside. I don't want any sour water smelling up the kitchen by morning."
"Yeah. Got it," Ethan muttered, his voice flat.
He didn't argue. There was no point. He walked back to the kitchen, dumped the foul-smelling mop water into the slop sink, and wrung out the heavy gray cotton head. As he worked, he thought about his bank account. Twenty-six dollars minus thirty dollars for the meal and penalty meant he was currently four dollars in the negative.
When he clocked out at 12:15 AM, Henderson was already gone, locking the front doors from the outside and leaving Ethan to exit through the rear service alley.
The alley was pitch black, lit only by a sputtering amber sodium vapor lamp that hissed against the brick wall. The rain had slowed to a miserable, icy drizzle, pooling in deep oil-slicked puddles across the cracked asphalt.
Ethan pulled his thin denim jacket tighter around his chest, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stepped out into the night. His bike was chained to a rusted iron pipe near the back door.
He walked over, pulled the heavy brass key from his pocket, and slid it into the padlock.
Click.
The lock sprang open. Ethan unwound the heavy steel cable from his bicycle frame, looping it over his shoulder.
As he turned to push off down the alley, a sudden flash of light cut through the dark.
A massive, obsidian-black Maybach limousine was idling silently ten feet away, its tinted windows reflecting the amber streetlamp. The rear door clicked open with a soft, pneumatic hiss.
Inside the cavernous, leather-lined interior, illuminated by a soft overhead reading light, sat the old man from table four.
He was no longer wearing the tattered, soaked tweed overcoat. Instead, he wore a tailored charcoal wool suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark silk tie. The tired, defeated slouch of his shoulders was entirely gone; he sat upright, his hands resting on the gold-carved handle of his cane, looking like a monarch surveying his domain.
Ethan froze, one hand gripping the handlebars of his bicycle.
"Evening, son," the old man said, his voice deep, rich, and completely devoid of the paper-dry rasps he had used inside the diner.
May you like
Ethan stared at him, blinking against the drizzle. "You... you're the man from table four."
"I am," the old man nodded. He gestured to the plush leather seat beside him. "Step inside out of the rain, Ethan. We have a great deal to discuss, and I imagine you’re tired."
