M Sellars: Perfect Trust

I took a quick right from Seventh Avenue into the entrance of the lot and then slowly cajoled my truck between the rear end of an old station wagon and a slightly canted utility pole. As I tucked my vehicle into the first available space, the sun was just beginning to peek up over the jagged horizon that was East Saint Louis, Illinois. Now that it was filtering across the Mississippi river in a glittery band, it momentarily bathed the city in that indefinable yellow-orange glow that immediately precedes the actual dawn of the day. The eerie kind of color that occurs only in nature, and then, fleetingly-a shade of the light spectrum that will never be found in a box of crayons nor be captured in exactness by any artist, no matter how talented.

As it always did, the glow rose quickly in intensity to become a full-fledged sunrise, raising several visual octaves from the chalky orange to bright yellow-white. I gave a quick glance around the parking lot and spotted a tired-looking Chevrolet van which I knew from first hand experience was nowhere near as decrepit as it appeared. The vehicle’s owner was the reason I had made this early morning trek into the city from the outlying suburbs where I lived, and since I couldn’t see him through the windshield, it was a safe bet that he was already inside the diner.

I switched off the truck and levered the door open, tucking my keys into my pocket as I got out. A crisp breeze was blowing and the temperature was holding steady for the moment at a brisk 42 degrees Fahrenheit. According to the radio, the high for the day was expected to be somewhere around 65. Considering that it had been in the mid 20’s on Thanksgiving day with snow flurries, this was about par for the course. It was December in Saint Louis, and it was as unseasonably unpredictable as it could get.

I locked my vehicle, even though it was probably unnecessary considering that there were two police cruisers on the lot, not to mention that the person I was here to meet was a city homicide detective. Security around here definitely wasn’t much of an issue, but locking up was a habit, and a good one at that.

I yawned as I started around toward the front of the building. Even though for all intents and purposes I was a morning person, I had been dragging a bit when I climbed out of bed on this particular day. I had been up late working on a piece of software for a client of my home-based computer consulting business. I couldn’t complain, really. I got to work from home and set my own hours. No neckties, no suits, and I did fairly well pulling down a decent enough living for my wife and me. And with her being an in-demand freelance photographer, we were actually living fairly comfortably. Still, I’d be forced to pull a late night every now and then, and last night happened to be one of the thens.

I’ll admit though, in this instance it had been less by absolute need and more by choice. With what had been happening to me lately, I wasn’t in any real hurry to go to bed. Don’t get me wrong, sleep was definitely something I had a strong desire to embrace, but I preferred to wake up in the same place I started, sans the pain, panic, and profanation. These days that was a game of chance with the odds stacked in someone-or something-else’s favor.

I stifled another yawn as I rounded the corner of the building and dodged an exiting patron with a mumbled “Sorry, excuse me.” Coffee, bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, and a host of other breakfasty smells enveloped me in a warm, olfactory hug as I grabbed the handle of the glass-fronted door before it could fully close, then tugged it open, and stepped inside the small diner. My ears were filled with the murmurs of ongoing conversations between patrons, liberally punctuated with throaty chuckles, clanging utensils, and barked food orders-all of which were underscored by the sizzle and pop of items on the hot griddle.

Directly in front of me was a Formica-sheathed counter complete with vinyl-capped stools bolted to the floor before it and the busy grill behind. Around the perimeter were small booths, the cushioned seats of which were covered with the same obnoxious red vinyl as the stools. A clear Plexiglas enclosure occupied one end of the lunch counter, and its shelves were piled with donuts on their way to being stale. A squat cash register took up residence at the opposite end.

Aged but carefully lettered signs posted on the wall offered such things as “Bottomless Cups of Coffee” and “Slingers” to go-a local indulgence involving among other things, hash browns, eggs, and chili. A sheet of paper was laminated to the back of the cash register with strips of once clear, but now severely yellowed, packing tape. Judging from the fuzzy edges and lack of clarity, it was obviously a photocopy of a photocopy to the power of ten at least. But it was still readable, and posted in plain sight it boasted: These Premises Protected by Smith and Wesson.

It took only a quick survey of the scene to spot my friend in a booth at the back corner. Of course, it would have been hard to miss him, considering that he was most likely the tallest individual in the room with the possible exception of the cook manning the grill. At the moment, however, he was certainly the only full-blooded Native American present. Shrugging off my jacket, I made my way toward him, my progress impeded for a short time as I did a quick box step in the narrow aisle with a young coffeepot-wielding waitress. With the dance and a quick apology out of the way, I hooked around the end of the counter and traversed the scuffed tile floor to the corner booth.

“Heya, Kemosabe,” Detective Benjamin Storm greeted me as I slid into the seat opposite him.

“Yo, Tonto,” I returned before stifling yet another yawn.

“Long night? Ain’t you usually the early bird.”

“Yeah, usually.” I nodded then explained. “I picked up a new client, so I had quite a bit of customizing and data conversion to do for them, so I was up pretty late.”

I wasn’t about to tell him that the project was something I could have easily done during regular business hours. He had a tendency to worry about me just as much as my wife, and if I told him what had been happening lately, I would end up having both of them to deal with. Besides, something told me that it was all going to come to the surface soon enough, so I was going to make the best of what peace I had left.

“Decent cash?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s a pretty good account,” I answered.

“Good deal.”

“Coffee, sir?” The young woman who’d done the two-step with me moments ago appeared stealthily at our table, a Pyrex globe of the black liquid in each hand. They were distinguished, as usual, only by the green or orange pour spout.

“Don’t call ‘im sir,” Ben quipped with a chuckle. “He’ll get a big head.”

“What’s wrong? Are you jealous?” she asked him before returning her attention to me. “Sir? Coffee?”

“Absolutely,” I answered, instantly turning the heavy mug in front of me upright and sliding it toward her. “Regular, please.”

She deftly filled the mug, pouring expertly from the side of the pot, then topped off Ben’s in the same fashion. “You guys ready to order, or do you want a few minutes?”

“I’m ready.” Ben looked over at me and raised a questioning eyebrow. “How ‘bout you, Row?”

“Uhmm,” I muttered as I pulled a single page menu encased in well-worn laminate from behind the napkin holder and gave it a quick once over. “How about…a number three, over-easy, wheat, and a side of biscuits with sausage gravy.”

“Ewwww, runny eggs? Don’t you know you can get sick from those,” she said as she wrinkled her nose.

“Wendy ain’t ‘zactly the most tactful person when it comes to ‘er opinions,” my friend expressed.