leaned across the table and his chest tapped his coffee cup. He caught it before it spilled everywhere, but some of the brown liquid splashed onto the tabletop. There went any shot of being intimidating.
“You look nervous, Franklin. Stressed. Is everything okay?” Carter said nothing.
“Oh, that’s right, I’ve been watching the news. The bombing.”
Hackett leaned back. He had a pale smooth face, clean shaven. “That’s gotta suck.”
“It was you.”
“Pay up. I asked you for money months ago. You didn’t listen. Next time, the restaurant might not be empty.”
Hackett stood up, straightened the collar of his polo shirt, and exited back into the rain. Carter put his head in his hands and tried to breathe deeply.
There was no way he was going to pay.
***
“They’re dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Maybe now you should find out what happened to the witness. What did he look like?”
Delshawn described him. Jackson Donne, a bit earlier than expected.
“You want him out of the picture?” Hackett let the question linger a moment.
“No. It’s not time for that yet.” Hackett chose his words carefully. “Just slow him down a bit.”
“A’ight.”
Hackett snapped his cell phone shut.
Donne’s next stop was only a mile away. He took Upper Mountain Road to Bloomfield, where you had to pay a meter. He parked, paid, and walked around the corner.
Along Church and Bloomfield, Montclair was an integration of all three parts of the city’s population. It seemed to Donne that the poor made their way south toward the discount shoe stores and fast-food restaurants. The college kids worked their way along the old record shop and toward sushi restaurants. And the wealthy members of the population checked out antique shops and Carter’s. Even in the pouring rain.
The town struck him as less segregated than New Brunswick, where the rich hung out in the restaurant and theater districts, the poor stayed north of the theaters, and the students kept mostly on campus. Montclair seemed integrated and more modern. Or maybe he was just cynical about his own city.
He stepped under the purple canopy of Carter’s, its name written along the sides in script, and knocked on the glass door. They wouldn’t open for lunch for another ten minutes, but he hoped Franklin was there.
Instead, a short blonde who didn’t look a day over twenty pushed the door open. She wore a white button-down shirt, black dress pants, and a name tag that read “Kate.”
“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t open until noon.”
Donne checked his watch. “Well, it’s almost noon, Kate.”
Hearing her name threw her off for a second, but she put on a great condescending smile and said, “Almost isn’t noon. I’m sorry, sir.”
Kate started to close the door, but he put his hand in and pulled it from her hand. The condescending smile set him off.
“Hey,” she said. “You can’t do that.”
“I’m looking for Franklin Carter. Is he in?”
“No,” she said, trying—but failing—to pull the door closed. Donne now had his foot stuck between the door and the jamb. “He won’t be in until after noon.”
“Well,” he said, grabbing the door again. He pulled it wide open. “I guess I’ll just have to wait for him.”
“You can’t—” Kate said as Donne stepped past her into the restaurant. “Who the hell are you?”
“That’s not very professional.”
He walked toward the hostess table, noticing the dark maroon wallpaper with dark mahogany-trimmed walls. The tables in the middle of the restaurant were wooden as well, all set with paper napkins and silverware.
“I don’t care how professional it is. You can’t just come barging in here.”
Donne took a seat at one of the tables. Not very comfortable. The wooden back of the chair was solid and straight. He couldn’t settle into it. They probably wanted the customers uncomfortable so as to move them in and out quickly when the place was busy.
“I’m working for Mr. Carter,” Donne said. Then he gave her his best condescending smile. “And I’m his brother-in-law.”
He was pretty sure someone put the air-conditioning on at that moment. Kate’s stare could have frozen fire.
“Oh,” she said. “You.”
“Yep, me. Do you think I could get lunch?” He glanced at his watch again. “It is noon now.”
Kate’s face flushed. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Beer?”
“We don’t have a liquor license. Most of Montclair is bring your own.”
“I see. I’ll just take an iced tea, then.”
“Very well,” Kate said. “Your waitress will be right with you.”
“You’re not my waitress?”
“I’m just the hostess, sir.”
“That’s a shame.”
She disappeared through a curtain into the kitchen. Through the front window he watched the rain splatter and traffic pass. A few people with umbrellas stopped and checked the menu, then moved on.
A tall brunette, dressed the same as Kate but with a name tag that read “Lauren,” put a glass of iced tea in front of him and asked if he was ready to order. He told her he’d have a steak sandwich. She gave him a more genuine smile than Kate had and also disappeared into the kitchen.
Framed on the walls were news reviews of Carter’s, autographed pictures of a few B-list celebrities who’d frequented the place, and one picture of Franklin Carter standing around a bunch of waitresses posed as if it were a family portrait. He looked happy as hell. Donne had never seen him that way.
“Hey, Lauren,” he called.
She poked her head out through the kitchen door. “Yeah?”
“Has Franklin been in today at all?”
She walked over to his table, leaned over, and spoke in a whisper. “He was here this morning but left
