Tuesday started like any other. The air was thick with the smell of rain and sizzling bacon. Bella was running on 4 hours of sleep, having spent most of the night on the phone with a nurse at her mother’s care facility, discussing medication changes and mounting bills. She felt a familiar knot of anxiety tighten in her stomach, but she pushed it down, pinning her professional smile in place as she tied her apron.
7:15 a.m. came and went. Booth four remained empty. Bella glanced at the clock, then at the door, a small furrow in her brow. Arthur was never late. Never. He was as reliable as the sunrise. By 7:30, a tendril of genuine concern began to creep into her thoughts. Maybe he was sick. He was old, after all. She made a mental note to ask the other regulars if they knew where he lived, though she doubted anyone did.
He was an island. At 8:05, the bell above the door chimed, but it wasn’t Arthur. The entire diner fell silent. Even the sizzle from S’s grill seemed to hush. Four men, all built like refrigerators and dressed in immaculate black suits with earpieces stepped inside. They moved with a fluid, disciplined precision that was utterly alien to the sticky, flawed diner.
Two flanked the door, their eyes scanning the room with unnerving stillness. The other two stepped aside to allow a fifth man to enter. He was older, perhaps in his late 60s, with silver hair swept back from a high forehead and a face that was all sharp angles and intelligent eyes. He wore a tailored charcoal gray suit that probably cost more than Bella earned in a year.
In his hand, he carried a pristine leather briefcase. He looked around the diner, his expression a mixture of mild distaste and focused purpose. Can I help you?” S asked, wiping his greasy hands on his apron, his usual bluster completely gone. The man in the charcoal suit ignored him.
