She said, “Mary’s right about the Vidalia onion, though. Fair warning: I’m eating it.”
“Me, too,” he said, and shrugged, as if they were stuck with each other and might as well make the best of it. Mary came back with two slices of lemon pie, a fresh pot of coffee and a new set of issues. “I’m sorry about the rush. If I could stay, I’d do it, really I would. But I just can’t. I brought you the pie on the house to make up for being so rude. And I brought cups if you want to take the coffee to go. Here’s your check,” she said. “I wouldn’t even charge you, but I’d get fired if my boss found out. I hope y’all don’t mind.” Mary’s apology, like everything else about her, was excessive but genuine.
“No worries,” Kim said. “Really. We’ve got to get on the road, anyway.”
Gaspar pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. Number Two pays and keeps the expense records. More paperwork Kim didn’t have to do. She was getting to like being Number One. Gaspar rooted around and unearthed a damp, tri-folded hundred from under the billfold flap.
He said, “I’m sorry. I thought I had something smaller, but my kids must have raided my wallet again.” He flattened the hundred, laid it on top of the check, and handed both to Mary. “It’s old, but it’s still good. I hope you have change?”
Mary stared at the Franklin as if he’d handed her a dead frog or maybe a live snake. Her face transformed from apologetic to confused to shocked. She squinted out the window checking the parking lot. Only two vehicles were there: the Blazer they’d arrived in and the green Saturn, presumably hers. Both were engulfed in the continuing monsoon.
“Something wrong?” Gaspar asked.
“I’m not supposed to make change for a hundred,” Mary said so quietly Kim could barely hear her.
“I can give you a credit card if you want, but it seems silly to do that for a twelve dollar lunch tab.” His voice trailed off when he, too, noticed Mary was close to panic.
Kim wiped the mustard and salt off her fingers with her napkin, reached into her pocket, and took out a twenty she’d gotten from the ATM in Atlanta. She handed it to Mary. “Here. Use this. He can pay me back later.”
“That’s great. I’ll be right back.” Mary took the twenty, pinching both bills and the check between thumb and forefinger, and rushed off to the kitchen.
“What do you suppose that was about?” Gaspar asked.
“Maybe she closed the register already. It’s 2:58, according to their clock.” Kim drank coffee while they waited for Mary’s return with the change. Gaspar remained alert. For what, Kim couldn’t say.
Mary didn’t come back.
Gaspar said quietly, “There’s something happening here.”
Kim looked up, saw nothing new in the mirror. “Where?”
“GHP cruiser in the lot. Two guys inside, not one. Roscoe said GHP rides one to a car unless they need back up.”
Kim looked outside and watched the GHP car park between the Blazer and the diner’s door. “Maybe they don’t know the place closes at three.”? Both officers exited the car. Burly. At least 6’3” and 250 pounds each. Either end of any decent college football team was smaller. They moved through the rain side by side like they had a purpose. Each one held a shotgun.
Gaspar said, “I’m guessing they’re not here for the Vidalia onions.”
“Probably not.”
“Less than ten seconds. Are you ready?” Gaspar asked.
She set her cup down. Wiped her hands. Put her napkin on the table. She noticed she’d never picked up her phone after the last internet search and she couldn’t remember whether she’d checked the results. No time for that now. She positioned the phone in the breast pocket of her jacket and pressed the application button to record and send video to the remote FBI server, just in case.
“I’ll lead. I’d rather not shoot anybody today,” she said, looking out the window. The twin towers seemed to glide through the rain curtain as if a moving sidewalk carried them relentlessly forward instead of their feet.
Gaspar placed both of his hands on the table top, in full view. She did the same. He asked, “Have you ever shot anybody?”
Kim didn’t answer. She lifted her gaze to the mirror. Only the trick of reflection and perspective made them seem to grow larger with each step, right?
The two men entered the diner single file out of necessity. No way two sets of those shoulders could pass through the door frame at the same time, even without the shotguns.
At the T, they peeled off. One moved toward the kitchen; the other approached, shotgun raised and ready. He stopped across the tile directly parallel to their table, set his legs shoulder width apart as if he was bracing to shoot. He stood out of reach, but left space for Kim and Gaspar to exit the booth and stand. Which they did. Slowly. Hands in the air, palms out. Before being asked.
“Officer…Leach,” Kim said, facing him because of the camera in her pocket, reading his name plate for the audio, like she’d been trained. “Do you know who we are?”
Leach said nothing, which was not normal law enforcement procedure anywhere.
“I’ve got I.D. in my pocket,” Kim said. “I’m going to pull it out and show it to you. OK?” The guy nodded. Once. Kim said, “I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t shoot me.” She kept her left hand raised, and reached slowly into her pocket with her right and pulled out her ID wallet. She showed him her badge and her photograph.
He looked. Said nothing. Kept the shotgun steady.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Otto,” Kim said. “This is my partner, FBI Special Agent Gaspar. Would you like to see his ID too?”
Leach nodded once. Gaspar repeated Kim’s actions. Leach repeated his.
“What’s this about?” Kim asked him.
He said nothing.
“You are holding a federal officer at gunpoint, sir. You realize that? What you’re doing is a federal crime. Do you understand?”
Leach kept his eyes open, his mouth shut, and his shotgun pointed.
Kim looked over at Gaspar and he shrugged as if to say, “Now what?”
According to the diner’s clock, four minutes had passed since Gaspar noticed the GHP unit in the lot outside. Her arms were tired. She’d never actually been ordered to raise them, so she lowered them again. Gaspar did the same thing. Leach showed no reaction. He just stood there, braced, shotgun pointed, staring, silent. Everybody waited. For what, she didn’t know.
Six minutes later, the second GHP officer emerged from the kitchen and strode down the aisle. He stopped two steps north of the first guy. His name tag said Leach, too. Brothers?
The second one did the talking.
He said, “Can I see your identification, please?”
“What is this about, Officer Leach?” Kim asked him. When he didn’t reply immediately, to make a clear audio record at the very least, she said, “We are FBI agents. Why are you holding us at gunpoint? What is going on here?”
He stood with his hand out, palm up. They handed the wallets to him. He took them, read them, refolded them. “If my dispatch says you check out, you can be on your way. It’ll take a minute, if you want to sit down.”
“What’s this about?” Kim asked, and was ignored, for the third time.
“Finish your pie. Mary makes great pie.” He took the ID wallets and returned to the cruiser. Rain settled on the brim of his hat while he opened the driver’s door, before pouring onto the ground when he ducked his mass to enter the vehicle. He left the cruiser’s door open while he used the radio.
The first Officer Leach remained in position, shotgun pointed. Looked like a Browning A-5, weighing about eight pounds. Even if he could bench press 80% of his body weight, his arms had to be getting fatigued by now. Yet the shotgun didn’t waver.
No one sat. No one ate pie. They waited. About ten minutes later, the second Officer Leach returned. He handed their ID wallets back.
“It’s OK,” he said to his partner. “You can put the gun down.”
The first Officer Leach lowered the shotgun.
