Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
His reflection in the side mirror showed a man who looked like any retired bricklayer or utility worker in central Illinois.
At a quarter to eleven, Carter parked his truck in the gravel lot behind his Springfield diner, far from the entrance where his name was painted on the glass.
The heavy steel kitchen door swung open with a screech of ungreased hinges.
Henry Lawson, the morning dishwasher, shuffled out into the cool morning air carrying a black plastic trash bag that bulged at the bottom.
Henry was seventy-one, his shoulders hunched as he lifted the heavy bag toward the high lip of the green dumpster.
As he reached up, Henry paused, his face tightening as he rubbed his lower back with his free hand.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the rusted metal of the bin before slowly making his way back inside.
Carter watched from behind his windshield, wondering if the old man had always moved this slowly.
Carter let go of the steering wheel, stepped out of the truck, and walked around to the front entrance of the diner.
The high-pitched hum of the old milk dispenser near the kitchen door buzzed in his ears as he stepped inside.
Over in booth three, a waitress was wiping the tabletop, the squeak of the damp green rag on laminate echoing in the corner.
He chose the stool at the far end of the counter, nearest the kitchen pass-through and the cash register.
The register sat on a small wooden stand, its drawer slightly open because the latch was notoriously stiff.
Carter knew the latch required a physical metal key to override when it stuck, a detail he had meant to have repaired during the summer.
Megan Vance, the twenty-two-year-old cashier, was standing by the register, her dark ponytail bouncing as she typed on her phone.
