Chapter 13

The walls had a new coat of paint. The stools were new and the Formica top had given way to tiles.

An old fat man, with sleek, grayish hair that had been artificially straightened sat at a table for three, with a frown on his face, as if he held a perpetual grudge against the world.

He wore a black leather jacket. A black fedora hooded his eternally bloodshot eyes while a well-pinched and half-smoked cigarette burned slowly between his fat, moderately dark lips, the smoke curling up into his face.

Mary, who was watching him from a distance, wondered whether it was the smoke that made him squint.

Whoever this stranger is must be in a foul mood, Mary thought. Something was stirring deep within him.

“Excuse me, Sir,” Mary said, motioning to the stranger. “How may I help you?” She asked.

The man looked up and then crushed the half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray. He circled the woman with his eyes, looking for God-knows-what, something that only experi