Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
The heavy kitchen door squeaked on its brass hinges as Henry pushed his way through, carrying a fresh stack of clean coffee mugs. Carter stepped back into the shadow of the hallway vending machine, letting the older man pass before sliding his hand out of his jacket. The folded slip of register tape felt stiff against his palm, a tiny piece of evidence hidden beneath his pocket lining.
Out in the main dining room, the noon rush was beginning to fill the vinyl booths with retirees and city utility workers. Carter walked slow, keeping his head down beneath the brim of his blue construction cap as he took his usual seat on the end stool.
Troy was already standing behind the counter, but he was not rolling his usual silver quarter across his knuckles. Instead, he was holding a clean ceramic mug and smiling as Henry set the clean stack of cups on the shelf.
“Take a load off for a second, Henry,” Troy said, his voice carrying a warmth that Carter had not heard from the young cashier all autumn. “You’ve been on your feet since seven.”
