in.
The DQ was dosed. Too early. I walked to Gwen’s Diner at the corner. Gwen had retired four years ago. Her daughter Sheila had taken over. Regulars started calling her Gwen Two. After a while they dropped the “Two.” Sheila had a teenage daughter who waited tables after school. Her name was Althea. I wondered if she would become Gwen Three. Maybe it would become a tradition, like the Phantom, the Ghost Who Walks. There would be a Gwen to replace the last Gwen until some developer like Carl Sebastian decided to have a giant step on Gwen’s Diner, sweep it away and build an office building or more high-cost and high-rise apartments.
The place was crowded with people who stopped by on the way to work and the marginal and long retired who had their daily ritual breakfast to be near people and be recognized.
I was becoming a more-or-less regular. I came when I had to get up early. If I got up late, I picked up something at Dave’s DQ. Gwen’s opened at five in the morning, before sunrise.
There was an opening at the counter between a guy who looked like a truck driver and an old man who looked like a gray stick.
Gwen, who wore a morning smile, an apron and a minimum of makeup on her pink round face, placed a white mug of coffee before me.
“Eggs scrambled soft, two strips and rye toast?”
I nodded. She nodded too and hurried off, coffee decanter in hand.
People at the five tables behind us talked softly, respecting the morning, slowly waking up.
“Seen you here before,” said the old man on my right.
I nodded and drank.
“You from the North?”
I nodded again. Drank some more coffee.
“New York?”
“Chicago.”
“I’m from Steubenville, near Cleveland. Dean Martin was from Steubenville. I knew some of his people.”
“That a fact?”
“Fact,” he said. “Been down here fifteen years. Thinking of going back but… nothing up there for me anymore. Wife died six years back. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t feel like engaging in the art of conversation,” he said.
I smiled. It wasn’t much of a smile, but it was something.
“Sorry,” I said as Gwen who had been Sheila returned with my plate. “I’ve been here about three years. My wife died too.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said. “She must have been young. Caroline was seventy-two, not so old anymore, with the medicines and all, you know?”
“Yeah,” I said, starting to eat.
“So, my name is Tim and you’re…?”
“Lew.”
“What do you do, Lew?”
I gave him a small shrug. What did I do? I got through each day. I watched movies. I took work when it came my way or I had to eat, drink and survive.
“I’m a process server.”
“That a fact?”
“No brag, just fact,” I said.
The eggs were fine, not quite raw. The bacon was crisp. I was feeling a little more human. The coffee was helping.
“Dangerous?” Tim asked.
He had swiveled toward me on the round blue counter seat.
“Not usually.”
“No offense, but I don’t think I’d be able to handle a job that made people mad at me.”
“The hours are good,” I said.
“I’m a welder,” said Tim. “I mean I was a welder. Don’t do it anymore. I liked it.”
“Corky Flynn,” came a voice from my left.
I glanced at the trucker type on my left. He was bulky, probably a few years younger than me. He was looking at me now, chewing something.
“Corky Flynn,” he repeated. “You remember? Wasn’t that fuckin long ago.”
I looked at him as I ate. The face and name didn’t ring a bell.
“You served papers on me. Divorce. You came to my garage, handed it to me right in front of Earl and Spence.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
I kept a folder with the names of every person I served papers to and the time I served the papers, and I made a note about where I had served the papers.
“Never served papers on you, Mr. Flynn,” I said.
“It wasn’t you?”
“Nope. Maybe someone who looks a little like me. Lots of people look like me. When was it?”
“Right after New Year’s.”
“This year?”
I ate while I talked. Tim the welder was listening, waiting for some violence he could talk about with his friends over an open campfire.
“I only served papers on two people in January,” I said. “Both women.”
That was true.
“I could swear…” Corky Flynn said, examining me closely.
“Ever make a mistake before, Corky?” I asked.
He sighed.
“Too many times. I married three of ’em. That’s why I work a double-hour day. Got to pay them off. Used to drive trucks, big rigs, but my back… never mind. Sorry. I’ll pay for your breakfast.”
“I accept,” I said.
He got up and pulled two tens out of the pocket of his jeans. He dropped the bills on the counter, patted my back and said, “Sorry. Been having a bad week.”
“You happen to know a driver named Dwight?” I asked, looking up at Corky Flynn.
“Driver of what?”
“Delivery or tow truck, don’t know.”
“Dwight, Dwight. Yeah, Dwight, don’t know his last name. Don’t want to. He’s trouble. Mean. Works out of a station somewhere off Cattlemen or McIntosh. Triple-A jobs I think. Has a chip of steel on his shoulder, looking for trouble. Mean son of a bitch. He comes to me with that attitude and I’ll knock that steel chip into his neck. My advice, stay away from him.”
“Can’t. Know how I can find him?”
“You know what I know. See you around.”
I held up a hand to acknowledge his departure.
“Thought he was going to hit you,” said Tim with a touch of disappointment in his voice.
“Sorry,” I said.
“You would have shot him, put him away with a kick to his balls or a karate chop,” he said.
“No,” I said. “Corky Flynn would have beat the hell out of me. Corky left enough to cover your breakfast too. Be my guest.”
Tim smiled. His teeth were false and white but his smile was real. I touched his shoulder and went out into the morning sun. The high school was about two blocks away, across 301, past the McDonald’s, the Sarasota Herald-Tribune office, a motel, a fried-chicken franchise and a discount eyeglass shop.
I drove the Metro to the school parking lot, took a space for visitors and left the windows open. Maybe it would help the pine tree get rid of that smell of stale tobacco.
