Frankie's Diner

~*~

Marcus walked down the darkened streets of New York, farther and farther away from the livelier, better lit parts of town. Not that he was ever alone. You're never alone in New York. It's just a matter of how much company you have.

The summer heat laid on him like a brick. Hot. Humid. Fetid. You take all these people, add in all that garbage they make, and then turn up the heat. What do you expect? Marcus thought. He stopped in front of his destination, an all night diner with its neon sign mostly blown out. Somebody's diner, not that it mattered. Marcus took a last puff on his cigarette and ground it out in the street. He was here to see a man about a job, not admire the scenery.

The door dinged as he walked into the old fashioned world of Formica and chrome. The blast of cold air shocked him and it took all his hard earned street composure not to gasp out loud like a startled girl. He glanced around and saw only two people, the waitress, and the man he'd come to see, Frankie. Good, no audience. No wonder Frankie liked to work out of this place.

Frankie sat alone at the counter, sipping black coffee out of a chipped mug. He wore work boots, heavy denim overalls, and a white t-shirt, his pale gray hair cropped close like he was still in the Corps. The waitress was behind the counter, a bulky gray cardigan wrapped around her to ward off the chill. She lounged against the back counter with her hands tucked on her sweater pockets, smiling a welcome as she popped her Bubblicious. Her nametag read "Carly" and her blonde hair was pulled back into a bouncy ponytail. Marcus laid his hand on the back of the red vinyl stool to the left of Frankie.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked.

Frankie looked down at the empty stool and considered it with serious eyes for a slow second. "Not yet," he said and sipped his coffee again.

Marcus slid into the seat and motioned to the waitress for coffee. The cup chattered against the saucer when she set it in front of him.

"Could fiddle with the air conditioner and take a little of this chill off, sugar?" Marcus gave the girl his best smile.

Carly looked at Marcus with sympathetic eyes, then looked at Frankie. "Nothing I can do about it," she chirped as she poured. "62,394."

Marcus almost asked her about the number but shrugged instead and reached for the sugar. He stirred his coffee slow and methodical, quick splash of sugar and one, two, three times around. He sipped his coffee and from the corner of his eye watched Frankie stare a thousand miles out into the distance.

"Are you looking for work?" he asked after a few quiet moments.

"Mebbe." Frankie looked around the diner. "I think we got a few seats left." Frankie set down his cup and nodded to Carly for a warm up.

"243." Her voice was soft and somber as her eyes met his.

Marcus drew in a breath, about to ask Carly about the numbers, because it was strange, even for New York, when Frankie interrupted him.

"Whatcha have in mind?"

Marcus focused his attention back to Frankie. "Small time hustler, runs some dope and a few other small things for us." Marcus sipped his coffee. It really was good, especially for diner coffee in the small hours. "He's skimming a little off the top and we'd probably let it go because it isn't much, but he's getting mouthy about it. Unless we make an example all the small timers will start doing it."

Frankie shrugged and sipped. "Fee?"

"Same as usual, 12 grand. Half up front and half when you're done." Marcus thought he heard silverware clatter against a plate and looked behind him. The diner was still empty.

"You got all the usual information?" Frankie asked.

"Picture, description, usual hangouts." Marcus pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and handed it over to Frankie.

As Frankie perused the information Marcus got a whiff of cherry pie. "Hey sugar, how about you cut me a slice of that delicious cherry pie I'm smelling. It'd go great with this coffee."

"We don't have any pie," Carly said. "No food at all really. The cook has the night off. All we have is coffee."

"When does this need to get done by?" Frankie asked.

"Umm," Marcus tore his eyes away from smiling Carly. "Before Wednesday, the next day or so."

Frankie grunted. "Any special instructions?"

"Make him die scared. Or at least make him look like he died scared."

"Sounds doable. I'll let you know where to deliver the other half of the money." Frankie looked at the door meaningfully.

Marcus nodded and took one last swig of his coffee. He left behind a thick brown envelope of used, non-sequential twenties and headed out the door. The thick heat was a relief after the Arctic chill of the diner. Without knowing why Marcus looked back once he had crossed the street. The envelope was gone from the counter and Frankie seemed to be deep in conversation with the stool on his right. Carly poured Frankie another cup of coffee and Marcus read "242" on her lips. Her face held the same sad expression.