Even a dark and dingy atmosphere can enlighten the search for facts.
I walked the broken cement, damp with leaves and sludge from the constant flow of vehicles only a few feet away. Where the cement broke in uneven levels, lampposts rose from the muddied sparse grass squares and cast a amber glow on the dark windows of the streets closed businesses.
My rubber soles made a tap-tap with each hastened step as I neared the diner, the lone glass pane with a neon sign intermittently flashing "open" to the few who dared to come out after dark.
As I arrived in front of the establishment, my momentum stalled as I swung the door outward.
I loved this dingy restaurant with it's low lighting, scrubbed floor, plastic chairs and booths, and strong coffee for the non-drinkers.
I slid into a booth barely in time for the short, plump waitress with a toothy grin to deposit my usual.
A drip of coffee slid over the rim. Just how I liked it. Hardly space between the brim and the steam.
The waitress nodded without a word, and turned back to her business of wiping down a table recently vacated by a group who apparently had no respect for the hard working.
This was my time to organize the hectic mass of information piled into my mind today. Most of the data couldn't be written. At this point, no one needed to know the plan I developed in light of the current circumstances at the White House.
Sometimes, during my mind's organizational break, I could be distracted. This was one of them.
A neighbor to my table whispered something behind me. My ears perked as I attuned myself to hearing the smallest of details. Came with the territory, I've been told.
I twisted in my seat, just enough to hear if I'd mistaken the sound for a coincidence.
"I have what you need." the voice to my side mumbled in a raspy voice that I was surprised to understand.
I waited for more. Nothing.
The extended silence told me it was my turn. "When and where?"
"Tomorrow. Here."
I watched the back of a haggard man, stooped to cut at least four inches from his younger height, glance purposefully at me till ours stares met briefly, then he left.
I knew he had my information. The key to how I could right the wrong. The least likely place, the forgotten diner where a cup of coffee was still two dollars versus five-and-a-quarter a few blocks away, had my answers for the citizens of a caving democracy.
thank you to those who've read my recent post. I realize it's not a whole short story. I am curious if readers like the voice of it as it's similar to the start of a new novel. Thank you for letting me indulge!
A gripping crime thriller for fans of fast twists, dark secrets, and adrenaline-fueled suspense
A mobster with a broken memory---A stolen fortune hidden for 15 years.
Mack Peters is about to play A Risky Game—and the next move could get him killed.
Killer With Three Heads is the second book in the Killer series. Bulletproof Morris ‘Mojo’ Johnson returns to New York as John Morrison after a 10 years’ absence to find the people responsible for kidnapping his daughter, Maria.
