I checked I was in the right place, then walked into the diner. The doorbell chimed to announce my arrival, its sound cutting through the air laden with the smells of coffee, grease and tobacco smoke. However, the only person who acknowledged me was the guy behind the counter. He caught my eye and gestured towards an empty stool. I took him up on his invitation and sat down.
"What'll it be, mac?" my host asked.
I glanced up at the bill of fare on the wall behind him. "Are you doing breakfast yet?" I asked. "Or is it too early?"
"Never too early for breakfast, mac. Or too late." My host extracted a pencil and pad from the folds of his white jacket, and looked at me expectantly.
"Ah. right." I thought for a moment. "Wheat toast, two eggs sunny side up. Juice. Coffee. Oh - and bacon. Crispy, please."
"Okay, mac." The guy behind the counter read my order back to me, then hurried into the kitchen.
It was after midnight - the quiet hours between the early birds and nighthawks - and the diner was almost empty. A couple were sitting in a booth, cooing at each other. A trio of blue-collar types were arguing over tomorrow's races. And, at the far end of the counter, was the man I was looking for. I peered into the kitchen. The host was busy at the grill. I called out to the lone man: "Hey! Buddy!" He looked at me nervously. "Got a light?"
The man nodded. "Sure." He fumbled in his jacket for some matches.
I shifted to the seat next to him and took the offered matchbox. "Thanks." Then I took a five cent cigar from my pocket and lit it up, taking in a lungful of smoke.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" the man asked.
"You might do. What line of business are you in?"
The man hesitated, eyeing me suspiciously. "I'm an ... accountant. I've got some important clients."
"An accountant?" The host was still busy in the kitchen. "I'm in that line myself, only I'm a debt collector."
The man paled and mopped his brow. "Really?"
"Yeah." I exhaled a long plume of smoke. "But I collect from the bad boys. And you, Ebert, you've been a bad boy."
At the mention of his name, Ebert began to shake. "L-look, if you're from Mr Scarlotti, you can tell him I've got the money."
"He wants his money. And now it's after midnight, it's with interest." I lifted my hand and, with a flourish, produced my knife. I let the blade glint in the light before returning it to its hiding place. Ebert stiffened in fear. "Understand?"
I went back to my seat, in time for the host to bring me my breakfast order. "There you go, mac. How do you like your juice?"
"Smooth," I said, and smiled at Mister Ebert. "I like it smooth."
