Chapter 7 - The Diner Across the Street
Later that evening, after the corporate audit teams had cleared the property and the Cadillac Escalades had rolled away into the wet night, Frank Dawson drove his sputtering white Ford pickup across the four-lane highway and parked it in front of a modest, neon-lit diner called The Blue Heron.
It was an old-school establishment with red vinyl booths, checkerboard floor tiles, and a counter smelling of fried onions and coffee.
Frank walked in, took a seat in a corner booth near the front window, and ordered a cup of black coffee and a slice of cherry pie from a tired waitress who didn't recognize him and didn't care who he was.
He pulled his titanium phone from his pocket, opened an encrypted notepad document, and began scrolling through historical real estate deeds for the entire county.
The waitress dropped off his coffee and pie. "You from out of town, mister?" she asked, wiping down the counter.
"Not exactly," Frank murmured, taking a sip of the hot black coffee. "I used to spend a lot of time around here twenty-eight years ago. Back when my younger brother ran this very diner."
The waitress paused, her eyes widening slightly. "Your brother? You mean old man Henderson? He owned this place before he passed away back in the nineties."
"No," Frank said softly, a distant, fond shadow crossing his weathered face. "His name was Thomas. He didn't own it for long. But while he was here, he made sure nobody in this town ever went hungry, whether they had money for a slice of pie or not."
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Frank finished his coffee, set down a twenty-dollar bill on the table without waiting for change, and walked back out into the cool night air.
He got into his truck, turned the key, and listened to the engine purr smoothly with its brand-new water pump and alternator. He shifted into drive, pulled out onto the highway, and headed toward the city, ready for whatever tomorrow might bring.
