Chapter 1 - Ninety-One FridaysThe diner had one working fluorescent tube and a jukebox that had not been fed in years.
Vincent Romano sat in the back booth with coffee going cold in front of him, watching the street through a window streaked with October rain.
Sal stood by the door.
Marco sat two tables over, pretending to read a newspaper he had not turned a page of in twenty minutes.
Vincent liked this place because nobody here knew his name.
He came in on Tuesdays.
He paid cash.
He left before the shift changed.
Nobody asked questions.
That was the arrangement.
“Sir.”
Vincent did not look up.
“What.”
“There’s a kid.”
Then he looked.
An eight-year-old girl stood at the edge of his table, both hands wrapped around a glass jar.
Rain was still caught in her dark hair. Her pink sneakers were soaked, and one lace hung loose against the floor. She was small in the way children became small when they had spent years learning to take up less room.
Sal had turned halfway around.
Marco’s newspaper had come down.
Vincent studied her face.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
She held his eyes without blinking.
“You’re mafia, aren’t you?”
The diner went quiet in the particular way rooms went quiet when somebody said the truth out loud.
Vincent lowered his coffee cup.
Slowly.
“That’s a serious question to ask a stranger.”
“I’m not asking a stranger.”
She lifted the jar and placed it on the table between them.
Both hands.
Careful.
Like it weighed a hundred pounds.
“I’m asking you.”
Vincent looked down.
Coins filled the jar nearly to the top.
Pennies.
Nickels.
Dimes.
A few quarters.
One crumpled dollar bill folded into a tiny square.
“I have money,” she said. “I’ve been saving all of it.”
“For what?”
“A house.”
Vincent looked at her.
“For you?”
“For my mom.”
That answer landed harder than it should have.
He leaned back.
“How old are you?”
“Eight.”
“Eight-year-olds buy candy with money like this. Toys. Gum.”
“I know.”
She looked down.
“I used to.”
Vincent watched the fingers gripping the jar.
“Birthday money?”
“Yes.”
“Pennies you found?”
“From the laundry room floor. There’s always some.”
“Anything else?”
She hesitated.
That hesitation was the first real crack in her courage.
“Mom gives me two dollars for ice cream in the summer.”
“And?”
“Fridays.”
“The good place?”
She nodded.
“With the window.”
“And you stopped going?”
“And I stopped going.”
“How long?”
She looked at the floor.
“Ninety-one weeks.”
Marco lowered the newspaper completely.
Vincent noticed.
The girl continued.
“I don’t miss it.”
Vincent reached for the jar.
She pulled it back.
He stopped.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
“I’m not.”
That answer made Sal move.
Vincent raised two fingers.
Sal froze.
The girl looked at the two men near the door.
“Your friends look scared.”
“They’re not scared.”
“Yes, they are.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Almost.
“What makes you think I can buy your mother a house?”
“Because bad men have money.”
Sal looked away.
Marco coughed into his fist.
Vincent stared at her.
“And good men don’t?”
“Good men have jobs.”
She said it simply.
Not cruelly.
Children could be brutal without knowing they were being brutal.
Vincent glanced at the jar again.
“How much?”
She shook it gently.
Coins clicked.
“I don’t know.”
“Have you counted?”
“Twice.”
“And?”
She whispered the number.
“Two hundred forty-seven dollars and eighty-three cents.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow.
“That’s a lot of ice cream.”
“I skipped ninety-one Fridays.”
He looked at the jar.
Two hundred forty-seven dollars.
Eighty-three cents.
A child's abandoned pleasures turned into a desperate dream.
Vincent had seen men kill for less.
He had seen families destroy each other over numbers written on pieces of paper.
He had never seen anybody save a quarter at a time to buy safety.
“What happened to your house?”
“We don’t have one.”
“Where do you live?”
“In an apartment.”
“Then why do you need a house?”
“Because our landlord is going to throw us out.”
Vincent's expression changed.
“When?”
“Friday.”
“What Friday?”
“This Friday.”
He looked at the window.
Tuesday.
Rain.
Four days.
“What’s the landlord’s name?”
She shook her head.
“Mom says never tell strangers where we live.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Then why did you tell me?”
The girl looked directly into his eyes.
“Because you’re not a stranger.”
“Why?”
“Because Mom knows you.”
The coffee stopped being interesting.
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“What did you just say?”
“My mom knows you.”
“How?”
“She said your name.”
“What name?”
“Vincent.”
Silence.
Sal’s hand moved toward his coat.
Marco stood.
The girl's face changed.
She had made the first mistake.
Vincent saw fear spread through her.
“Hey.”
She clutched the jar.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Where did your mother hear my name?”
“She had a picture.”
“What picture?”
“Of you.”
Vincent stood so fast the booth rattled.
The girl flinched.
He forced himself to slow down.
“Lily.”
She looked surprised.
“You know my name?”
“You have a backpack with your school name stitched onto it.”
She glanced down.
“Lily Carter.”
Vincent repeated it.
“Lily, what did your mother say about me?”
“She said…”
Lily swallowed.
“She said if a man named Vincent Romano ever comes near us, I should run.”
Every sound in the diner seemed to disappear.
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“Then why did you come to me?”
“Because Mom also said…”
Lily reached inside her wet pink backpack.
She pulled out a small envelope.
And placed it beside the jar.
“She said if we ever ran out of choices, I was supposed to give you this.”
Vincent stared at the envelope.
His surname was written across it.
In handwriting he knew.
Handwriting he had not seen in twelve years.
His dead brother's handwriting.
Vincent did not touch it.
“Where did you get that?”
“Mom kept it under her bed.”
“Lily.”
“Yes?”
“Is your mother home right now?”
The girl's eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t know.”
Vincent's heart dropped.
“Why don’t you know?”
“Because she disappeared yesterday.”
Before Vincent could answer, every light in the diner went out.
The fluorescent tube died.
The jukebox died.
The rain became suddenly louder against the windows.
Then headlights swept across the dark room.
A black sedan had stopped outside.
Lily whispered one sentence.
“The man with the red tie found me.”
May you like
The front doors opened.
And someone stepped inside.
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