Chapter 4 - The Diner Upstairs
Upstairs in the kitchen of The Rusty Anchor, the bell above the front door chimed cheerfully as the breakfast rush began. The smell of frying bacon, scorched coffee, and cheap pancake batter filled the warm air, a stark contrast to the cold, tense reality lingering just beneath the floorboards.
Clara wiped down the laminate counter with a damp rag, forcing a bright, retail-friendly smile onto her face as two regular longshoremen slid onto vinyl barstools.
"Morning, Tommy. Morning, Pete. Coffee?" Clara asked, lifting the glass pot.
"Pour it heavy, Clara, my head feels like a cement mixer after playing poker at the union hall till three," Tommy grumbled, rubbing his stubbled chin. "Crazy night out on the docks last night. Did you hear about the crash down by Pier 14?"
Clara’s hand paused over the mug for a fraction of a second before she resumed pouring, keeping her voice light and steady. "No. What crash?"
"Some high-roller in a black SUV slammed right into Warehouse B during the squall," Pete chimed in, tossing a crumpled dollar bill onto the counter. "State troopers towed the wreck this morning, but the rumor mill is spinning wild. Word is, it was a high-level hit. Some big-shot businessman from downtown."
"People do stupid things when they're driving in a blizzard," Clara said dismissively, setting the coffee pot down with a soft clink. "You want eggs, or just liquid regret this morning?"
"Give me the works, sweetheart," Tommy laughed.
As Clara turned toward the grill, her chest tightened. The police and syndicate goons were already sniffing around the perimeter. It was only a matter of time before someone decided to search the surrounding commercial properties—including the empty cellars and storage sheds lining the back alleys.
Ten minutes later, carrying a paper plate loaded with scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and black coffee, Clara slipped through the swinging kitchen doors marked Employees Only and descended the creaking wooden stairs into the basement.
Roland was sitting up against the stone foundation wall, his broad shoulders resting against the damp brick. He looked terrible—pale, clammy, and wincing with every breath—but his eyes were alert. Brutus the mastiff was sitting right beside him, resting his massive chin on Roland’s knee.
"Breakfast," Clara announced, setting the paper plate on an upturned wooden crate next to him.
Roland looked down at the greasy eggs and white toast, then up at Clara. "What is this?"
"It's food. It has calories. Eat it," Clara snapped, pulling up a rusted metal folding chair and sitting down opposite him. "Upstairs, the docks are buzzing. Your friend Curtis has half the city's cops and every thug from here to Camden looking for your corpse."
Roland picked up a piece of toast with his left hand, his fingers stiff and bruised, and took a slow bite. "He's thorough. I'll give him that."
"He's paranoid," Clara corrected. "And if anyone checks this building—even just to see if the pipes froze—we're both dead. You need to get out of the city, Mr. Vance."
"And go where?" Roland asked quietly, his dark gray eyes locking onto hers. "My bank accounts are frozen under my alias until I can access my offshore servers. My security detail is compromised. Anyone I call will either sell me out to Curtis or end up in a shallow grave before sunset. In this city, Roland Vance doesn't exist anymore."
"Well, you can't live in my basement forever," Clara retorted, crossing her arms over her chest. "The health department already visits twice a year. If they find a mafia boss bleeding on a army cot next to a giant slobbering dog, my review is going to tank."
Roland let out a dry, sharp exhale that turned into a wince. "You've got a lot of nerve for someone serving scrambled eggs out of a greasy spoon."
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"And you've got a lot of arrogance for a man whose life I just pulled out of a ditch," Clara countered, her hazel eyes flashing with sudden, sharp defiance. "If I wanted you dead, I could have left you in that SUV for Curtis to finish off. Instead, I'm risking my neck, my job, and my sanity to keep you breathing. So don't test me."
Roland stared at her in silence for a long moment. Then, slowly, a faint, genuine respect flickered in his hard gaze. In a world of backstabbers, sycophants, and killers, this waitress was the only person who had looked him in the eye and told him the unvarnished truth.
