Jack's Diner

It was strangely pretty, like a cheap hooker after a night scraping the bottom of a liquor bottle.   Shame no one was around to see it.        4am in a cheapside November back alley of a hick town isn’t going to be fun time at Barnum’s Circus.        My little reverie snapped like a stool pigeon’s neck as Jack slammed down the bill.       I turned from my alley window seat.  The diner was emptier than a taxman’s heart.

“Anytime you feel like going home is fine by me buddy.”  Jack wiped the sarcasm on his apron. That apron could tell the tale of a thousand ‘easy overs.’   They should melt it down and feed Africa.

I dropped some change on the table and made my way into the alley.  Winter slapped me hard across the face.    Tonight, home would be the threadbare seat of my ancient Chevy with matchstick acro props for eyeliner.   If I messed up this job I’d be toast.      There were a pile of bills back on my desk that could re-forest the Amazon.   If I missed another rent bill the landlord had promised to extract my liver for free.  That’s kind of him ‘cos I can’t afford the med fees.

I don’t normally do divorce Peeping Tom jobs, but one thing swayed this one.      Desperation.      An empty diary and a 20 stone bailiff with a knuckleduster help clear the mind.      So when this dame shimmied into view waving her shapely ass and a thick wad of Uncle Sam’s finest to catch her old man with his pants down, I hadn’t got the stomach to refuse.  Especially as that stomach hadn't seen food in days.  She’d better cough up the greenbacks when I explain that her husband is clean.  Unlike his apron.  Jack is just working late like the rest of us, to pay the freakin’ bills.