Chapter 2 - The Back Booth at Marlow’s
Six months earlier, Dominic Russo walked into Marlow’s Diner at 11:47 on a Tuesday night and changed the temperature of the room without saying a word.
Alex remembered the exact time because the clock above the kitchen had stopped at 11:47 three weeks earlier.
Bobby kept promising to replace the battery.
He never did.
The bell above the door rang.
Conversation died.
Three men entered first.
Dark suits.
Hard faces.
One remained near the door.
Another chose a booth facing the street.
The third looked toward the kitchen.
Then Dominic entered.
Alex had heard the name.
Everybody had.
Russo.
It was attached to restaurants nobody could get reservations at, construction companies that never lost bids, nightclubs with velvet ropes and private elevators, and rumors nobody repeated loudly.
Dominic sat in the back booth.
Bobby disappeared into the kitchen.
Coward.
Alex picked up a menu.
She walked over.
“What can I get you?”
Dominic looked at the menu.
“Coffee.”
“You want to know what kind?”
“Black.”
“That answers the cream question, not the coffee question.”
One of his men stared at her.
Dominic looked up.
“What kinds?”
“Regular, decaf, espresso, cappuccino, and something Bobby calls French roast that I strongly suspect is just regular coffee in a different pot.”
Dominic studied her.
“Regular.”
“Excellent choice.”
She turned.
“Miss.”
Alex stopped.
“Food.”
She looked back.
“What about it?”
“What’s good?”
“Nothing after ten.”
The man near the entrance looked offended on behalf of the diner.
Dominic almost smiled.
“What’s least bad?”
“Grilled cheese.”
“I’ll take one.”
Alex wrote it down.
“With fries?”
“Yes.”
“Anything for your friends?”
“They’re working.”
“They look thrilled.”
This time Dominic did smile.
That should have warned her.
It did not.
Ten minutes later Bobby emerged carrying a folder.
He looked like he was approaching an execution.
“Mr. Russo.”
Dominic glanced up.
“Bobby.”
“I got those papers you asked for.”
He placed the folder on the table.
“I, uh, had Alex look at them.”
Dominic’s gaze shifted.
Alex was pouring coffee nearby.
“Alex?”
“She does the books.”
“For the diner?”
“And a few neighborhood businesses,” Bobby said quickly. “She’s good.”
Dominic opened the folder.
“Come here.”
Alex continued pouring.
“I’m working.”
Bobby nearly died.
“Alex.”
“What?”
“Please.”
The fear in his voice finally made her look.
Dominic waited.
Alex sighed and walked over.
“What?”
He pushed several pages toward her.
“Bobby says you checked these.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“The totals are wrong.”
Silence.
One of Dominic’s men slowly turned his head.
Dominic leaned back.
“My accountant prepared them.”
“Then your accountant made a mistake.”
“How much?”
“Four thousand one hundred eighty-six dollars and twenty cents.”
Dominic’s eyebrows lifted.
“You’re sure?”
Alex pulled a green pen from her apron.
“Page four.”
She circled a number.
“This expense was deducted twice.”
Another circle.
“Page six. Wrong depreciation schedule.”
Another.
“Page seven. Somebody reversed two digits.”
Dominic watched her.
Alex continued.
“You owe the state more than this says.”
“You’re telling me I owe more money?”
“Yes.”
“Most accountants try to save their clients money.”
“Good accountants try to keep their clients out of prison.”
One of his men coughed.
Alex glanced toward the gun beside Dominic’s coffee.
Then back to him.
“Financial prison,” she added.
Dominic laughed.
It was the first time she heard it.
Not loud.
Not warm.
But genuine.
“What’s your name?”
“Alex Mercer.”
“Alexandra?”
“Only when somebody wants something.”
“Then Alex.”
She took the folder.
“Your coffee is getting cold.”
He returned the following Tuesday.
Same booth.
Same order.
The Tuesday after that, he returned again.
By the fourth week, Alex stopped pretending she did not expect him.
He always arrived late.
He always ordered terrible diner coffee.
He rarely ate the grilled cheese after the first visit.
Sometimes he brought folders.
Sometimes he brought nothing.
Their conversations began with numbers.
They moved to books.
Then movies.
Then neighborhoods.
Dominic never talked about family.
Alex noticed.
She never asked.
He learned she had studied accounting at night while working two jobs.
She learned he hated olives.
He learned she lived three blocks away.
She learned he knew the names of every employee at Marlow’s despite pretending not to care.
One Tuesday, an elderly customer named Mrs. Keller dropped her purse.
Dominic stood before anybody else could.
He gathered the contents.
He handed her lipstick back.
Mrs. Keller looked at him.
“You need a haircut.”
The entire diner froze.
Dominic touched his hair.
“You think?”
“It falls in your eyes.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“You should.”
He nodded solemnly.
“I will.”
Alex laughed so hard she had to turn away.
Later, after Mrs. Keller left, Dominic said, “What?”
“You looked terrified.”
“I was.”
“Dominic Russo, afraid of an eighty-year-old woman.”
“She was aggressive.”
Alex smiled.
It was the first time she forgot to be afraid of him.
That was dangerous.
Not because Dominic did anything.
Because fear had been the sensible thing between them.
Fear was a wall.
Walls were useful.
Once they started disappearing, Alex noticed other things.
The exhaustion beneath his eyes.
The way his shoulders tightened whenever the door opened unexpectedly.
The fact that he always positioned himself where he could see every entrance.
The way his expression softened when nobody was looking.
And Dominic noticed things about her too.
She chewed green pens.
She hated owing money.
She took leftover food to a homeless man named Eddie two blocks away.
She never accepted tips from Dominic larger than twenty percent.
Once he left five hundred dollars.
Alex followed him outside.
She shoved four hundred fifty into his hand.
Dominic stared at it.
“Most people don’t return money.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No.”
His gaze lingered.
“I’m starting to understand that.”
By the third month, one of Dominic’s men began calling Tuesday nights “accounting night.”
Dominic threatened to fire him.
Alex found that hilarious.
Then, one snowy evening, Dominic arrived alone.
That frightened her more than the guards.
He sat in the back booth.
Alex brought his coffee.
“Where’s the funeral procession?”
“Busy.”
“With?”
“Things.”
“Very informative.”
Dominic turned the cup between his hands.
“Alex.”
Something in his tone made her stop.
“What?”
“Has anyone asked you questions about me?”
She frowned.
“What kind of questions?”
“Where I sit. When I come. Who comes with me.”
“No.”
“If somebody does, tell me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m asking.”
“That doesn’t work on me.”
His eyes hardened for a moment.
Then softened again.
“Because somebody is trying to learn my routine.”
Alex looked toward the windows.
“Are you in danger?”
Dominic gave her a strange smile.
“I’m always in danger.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“No.”
He held her gaze.
“I’m not in danger.”
She knew immediately he was lying.
Dominic left thirty minutes later.
Alex watched through the window as his car disappeared.
Then she noticed a man sitting alone in a gray sedan across the street.
He was not looking at Dominic’s departing car.
He was looking at her.
Their eyes met.
The man smiled.
Then he drove away.
The following Tuesday, Dominic did not come to Marlow’s.
For the first time in months, Alex found herself staring toward the door every time the bell rang.
And at 1:13 in the morning, someone slid an envelope beneath the diner’s back door.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed Alex standing beside Dominic’s booth.
Across her face, somebody had drawn a red circle.
May you like
On the back were six words.
STAY AWAY FROM DOMINIC RUSSO.
