Gibson stood and threw his messenger bag over a shoulder. The woman at the end of the counter was still there. As he passed, her eyes picked him up in the mirror behind the counter and tracked him across the diner. It was unsettling that she didn’t give a damn if he knew it.

The back of the diner was empty apart from a solitary man sitting at Gibson’s regular booth. The man had his back to Gibson and was jotting notes on a legal pad. There was something familiar about the man, even from behind.

The man sensed someone behind him and stood. He wasn’t big, but there was a muscular athleticism to the way he moved. Thirty-five going on fifty. A whisper of gray at the temples, a strong face with only the slightest sagging along the jawline. Otherwise there was little to gauge his age. Also, the man looked unreasonably sharp. Blue jeans and an immaculate button-down so white it belonged in a commercial for bleach. Even his jeans were ironed, and the black leather cowboy boots were spit polished.

Gibson felt a bitter hand dig its nails into his heart. He knew this son of a bitch. Knew him well. George Abe, in the flesh. Smiling at him. Gibson flinched like someone had taken a swing at him, stopping inches from his face. Why was Abe smiling? The man needed to stop smiling. It looked genuine but felt like a taunt. Gibson took a step toward him, not sure what he was going to do but wanting to be ready the second he made up his mind.

He checked himself as the woman from the counter swept into his field of vision. She circled with speed and grace, keeping her distance but making him aware of her presence. What was it they said about Ginger Rogers . . . ? She did everything Fred Astaire did only backward and in heels? Her jacket was unbuttoned, and she’d pivoted to offer him her profile in case she had to draw on him. Her face remained relaxed and expressionless, but Gibson had no doubt that would change if he took another step.

George Abe hadn’t moved a muscle.

“I really was hoping for a friendly chat, Gibson.”

“She come to all your friendly chats?”

“Hoping, not expecting. Can you blame me?”

“Can you blame me?”

“No,” Abe said. “I can’t.”

The two men stared at each other while Gibson considered Abe’s response, his initial hostility replaced by a deepening curiosity.

“So what brings you by this morning? I haven’t even had time to dust myself off since your boss got me canned from my job last month.”

“I know. But I haven’t worked for Benjamin Lombard in some time. I was . . . let go. The week after you began basic training.”