VICTOR ENTERED THE Beehive Diner.
The usual suspects sat at the counter and in their booths. When they caught his eye, they looked away. God forgive their turning their backs on me, he thought as he sat as his stool beside Larry Branch and ordered a late breakfast. Larry nodded but said nothing. The place grew tense as conversations lulled.
When his breakfast came, Victor mashed his fried eggs and hash together but did not eat it. He sipped his black coffee. He needed to get his energy up to speak with the lawyer. That’s what he needed. That’s what he told himself. With a full stomach, he’d be able to concentrate. He took a bite of his eggs and hash, not tasting it. With no appetite, he dug in to the breakfast to get it over and done.
As he swiped up the last of the hash with a wedge of toast, Gwynne refilled his coffee. “There’s been a mix-up, I’m sure,” she said. But her voice a whisper, so others would not hear.
“Yes,” Victor said. “Boy’d have to lose his mind to throw away the future he’s got lined up.” There he went, unable to check his pride, even if it came with its price.
The bell above the door jangled.
Victor glanced in the mirror behind the counter to see the reflection of a black raincoat.
Jon Merryfield took the stool on the other side of Victor.
Gwynne swooped in, coffeepot in hand. “You’re a sight. Been a dog’s age.”
“I’ve been trying to eat well,” Jon said.
“Tsk. What can I get you?”
Jon eyed Victor’s plate. “Whatever he had. Looks like he licked it clean.”
Gwynne glanced at Victor, then whispered to Jon, “I’m awful sorry for what happened in your home.”
Jon glanced at Victor. “Coach. How are you?”
Victor stopped drinking his coffee. “How’s that?” he said, not meeting Jon’s eyes, which felt as though they were boring into him.
“I said, ‘How are you, Coach?’ ”
“How do you think?”
“I suppose as good as ever by the looks of that cleaned plate. Though you do look a bit green about the gills.”
“You read the paper?” Larry Branch said to Merryfield.
“Haven’t had a second,” Merryfield said. “Pretty occupied with my own case.”
“His boy’s been taken in for questioning for what happened at your place,” Branch said.
Jon stared at Victor. “Is that right?”
“You know it’s right,” Victor said. He wanted to leave, this moment. He felt too hot. The air in the place seemed to shimmer.
“Guess I might have heard something,” Jon said.
“You know damn well,” Victor said.
“Do I?”
Gwynne stared at the two men, confused, the coffeepot suspended in midair from her hand.
Victor brought his eyes up to glare at Jon. “My boy never did nothing wrong.”
“Then I guess he’s got nothing to worry about,” Jon said. “Yet there he sits. Even with you praying for him nonstop.”
Victor stood abruptly, knocking over his coffee mug and spilling coffee on the counter. Gwynne broke from her trance and wiped up the mess as Victor tossed down his money and huffed out of the diner.
Jon watched him go.
“You think he did it, Victor’s boy?” Gwynne asked Jon.
“Cops don’t arrest someone unless they got them dead to rights. Not for murder,” Branch said. He passed his check across the counter to Gwynne, who rang him up.
“They haven’t arrested him,” Gwynne said. “They’re holding him for questioning. There’s a difference, isn’t there, Jon?”
Jon stirred his coffee, watching as Victor strolled past the window, looking inside the diner as he made to cross the street.
“Remember that guy and the Atlanta Olympics bombing? Everybody had him hanged,” Gwynne said.
“I don’t doubt for a second the boy did it,” Branch said. “Pampered, entitled jock who thinks he can get away with anything. And his old man excusing any behavior. Hypocrite.”
“I thought you liked Vic,” Gwynne said. “You talk to him every morning.”
“A matter a proximity,” Branch said.
“Why sit next to him at all then?”
“He sits next to me. I sit right where I’ve always sat for thirty years. I like my stool.”
“You know what,” Jon said. “I’m good, Gwynne. I lost my appetite.”
He put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and walked out, his mind buzzing.