He exited the Buttered Bean’s rear vestibule and took a seat at the counter. The place smelled of buttermilk biscuits and pork sausage, but for some reason he wasn’t hungry. He asked the waitress for a cup of coffee.

She looked up, and he thought her chewing gum might roll out of her slacked jaw.

“Coffee?” he said again.

“You’re Cole Logan.”

“And you’re Bernice,” he said, indicating her name tag.

“Always wondered when you were going to drop by.”

“Well, better late than never.”

“You look like hell.”

“Feel even worse. Sugar, no cream.”

Cole felt her stare as she poured from a steaming pot.

“I know what you’ve been through so I’m just gonna leave you be,” she said. “Anything to eat? It’s on the house.”

“Nothing, thanks.”

She pulled a pack of Winstons from her apron and set them on the counter beside his cup. “These might help. Call if you need anything.”

“Thanks.” Cole lit a cigarette, sipped his coffee, and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. In the reflection of the shake mixer, he saw a handful of people scattered among the booths behind him, their heads straining for a better look at him. He kept his head down and drank quickly, waiting in earnest for the caffeine to kick in.

He finished the first cup and looked up to signal Bernice for another. In his search for the waitress he discovered Mona sitting in the front booth by the window, sipping green sludge he assumed was pea soup. Her eyes were trained intently on the bowl in front of her.

Bernice returned a minute later. “Black Mona.”

“Huh?”

“The woman you’re pretending not to look at.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s Black Mona.”

“I know that. She’s my neighbor.”

“Well, I’d be careful staring if I was you. Piss her off and you might get lockjaw.”

“Yeah.” Cole blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Or shingles or acne or herpes or athlete’s foot. I’ve heard ’em all. I even hear she brings dead cats back to life. She come here often?”

“Almost every day for breakfast. She’s usually here for Saturday lunch, too, ’cause she likes my split pea soup. Hardly says a word most times. Not a bad tipper, though. Loves football, you know?”

“Yeah … I know. Excuse me.”

Cole crushed his Winston, picked up his coffee, and walked to the front of the room. “Can I join you?”

“Hi, Cole,” Mona said without looking up. It was as if she’d been expecting him. “Yes, please, sit down.”

She audibly slurped her soup. Cole slid into the booth, opposite her.

“I suppose you’re here to talk about a little payback,” she said.