Charlie Warner is in a booth with her back to the wall and a clear line of sight to the exit. I’ve heard cops call that ‘the Clint chair’, because of Dirty Harry. She’s dressed in jeans, boots and a flannel shirt, all tailored to fit. Cowgirl chic. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. A Stetson rests on the seat next to her.

Warner is sipping an espresso, while everyone else here has brewed coffee. The bacon on her plate looks perfectly crisp, and the eggs neither too sloppy nor too dry. I wonder if she left a huge tip last time she was here, or threatened the owner, or just got lucky.

Wordlessly, she gestures to the seat opposite. The seat from which the exit and the rest of the room are invisible. I wonder if there’s a name for that. But they won’t kill me in front of all these witnesses.

Not that any of those witnesses seems to be looking my way. When I was a street beggar, I developed a keen sense of being avoided. I have it now—a feeling of being not watched, of gazes placed anywhere but on me.

Francis and Sariklis hustle me forwards. Hands on shoulders, they press me down into the seat Warner indicated.

‘Francis was late,’ I say.

Warner dabs at her lips with a napkin, leaving a little lipstick on it. She clears her throat. ‘Let me tell you a story,’ she says.

A server brings me a cup of coffee. Brewed. She leaves without saying anything. I don’t touch the coffee. Thallium sulfate is tasteless. So is botulinum. Amatoxin. Compound 1080. Any of these would kill me. Some of them would even kill anyone who ate my body afterwards.

‘There was a girl who used to work for me,’ Warner says. ‘Indigo. She was a stripper, and a skilled one. It was amazing, how quickly she could get a man to the point where he would do absolutely anything. She didn’t even need to talk—she just had a really authentic smile. Sweet kid. Anyway, her husband had some debts, and Indigo wanted to pay them off. So she requested a promotion to active duty.’ She means prostitution.

I say nothing.

‘I thought she’d earn me a fortune. I changed her name to Sindy—with an S—and put her to work.’ Warner skewers a piece of bacon with a polished fork. ‘She was really good at getting the customers from the entrance to her room. Once they were in there, she was not so good, but I thought that would improve over time.’

I’m surprised that she’s talking about this in public. No one else in the diner seems to be listening, but I’m not sure what the point is.