Desperate Measures

13

When Pittman entered the diner, he watched to see if anyone looked suspiciously toward him. No one seemed to care. Either they hadn’t seen the story about him on TV or else they didn’t make the connection with him. After all, no one here knew him by name, except for the cook who was usually on duty at this hour, and the cook knew Pittman only as Matt.

“How you doing, Matt?” the cook asked. “No show for several weeks, and now you’re back two nights in a row. We’ll get some weight back on you quick. What’ll it be tonight?”

Still dismayed that the police had arranged for his bank’s automated teller machine to seize his card, Pittman said, “I’m low on cash. Will you take a check for a meal?”

“You’ve always been good for it.”

“And an extra twenty dollars?”

“Hey, you don’t appreciate my cooking that much. Sorry.”

“Ten dollars?”

The cook shook his head.

“Come on.”

“You’re really that low?”

“Worse than low.”

“You’re breaking my heart.” The cook debated. “Okay. For you, I’ll make an exception. But don’t let this get around.”

“Our secret. I appreciate this, Tony. I’m starved. Give me a salad, the meat loaf, mashed potatoes, plenty of gravy, those peas and carrots, a glass of milk, and coffee, coffee, coffee. Then we’ll talk about dessert.”

“Yeah, we will get some weight back on you. You sure that’s all?”

“One thing more.”

“What is it?”

“The box I gave you last night.”