Seven Empty Deposit Envelopes Showed What Was Happening At Carters Diner
Henry looked toward the back parking lot where the rusted blue sedan was parked near the dumpster.
“The muffler is rusted through,” Henry said, his voice returning to its quiet, formal tone. “It makes a terrible racket when I start it up in the mornings.”
“We can get that fixed,” Carter said.
“I’ve been sleeping on the back seat with three blankets,” Henry said. “The spring in the middle of the seat has been poking through the vinyl since October.”
“You won’t be sleeping in the car anymore,” Carter said.
At a quarter to eleven, the rest of the day shift began to arrive through the back door, shaking the rain from their jackets.
Sarah, the veteran waitress who had worked the dinner shift for twelve years, walked in carrying a fresh apron from her car.
Dave, the line cook with the grease-stained apron, was already turning up the heat on the flat-top grill, the smell of toasted rye starting to fill the kitchen.
“Gather round for a minute,” Carter called out, standing near the wooden cash register stand in the vestibule.
