Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
“That audit is twelve days away,” Henry said.
“I cannot afford twelve days of gas just to sit in this car.”
“Go down to the motel on the corner of Fourth Street,” Carter said.
“I can give you thirty dollars to help with the room for a couple of nights.”
“I don’t take handouts, Carter,” Henry said, his voice hardening.
“It is not a handout,” Carter said, pulling two twenty-dollar bills from his pocket.
“It is a loan, and you can pay me back when you are back on the schedule.”
Henry looked at the bills, his hand remaining at his side for several seconds before his fingers finally closed around the paper.
“Thank you,” Henry said.
“Just stay close,” Carter said. “Don’t go back to Decatur or out of the county.”
Henry nodded slowly, opening the creaking door of his Buick.
The back seat was piled with old blankets and a cardboard box of clothes, the small remnants of his life packed tight.
Carter watched him climb into the driver’s seat, his movements slow and painful.
The Buick’s door shut with a heavy, unaligned thud that echoed in the quiet alley.
