Page 9 of Gave Proof Through the Night

The bell above the door does its little ding as I walk in, and Donna’s pen is already moving. The little notepad appears from her apron pocket before I've cleared the entrance mat. She writes without looking up, tears the top sheet, and clips it to the order wheel.

“Blueberry stack, extra butter, strawberry shake. Extra whipped cream.”

Donna is basically a permanent feature of the place like the specials board that still lists pie for two-fifty.

She loves me.

She really does.

“Thank you, Donna.”

She gives me the look that means I know, honey, and then she’s gone.

I head straight to the back.

Vin’s Diner exists in a pocket of Bay Ridge that won’t let go of the 1970s. The booths are cracked red vinyl, and the menus are covered in plastic and a sticky residue that will never come off. The light comes through the front windows at an angle that makes everything look slightly golden, even on gray mornings. It smells like maple syrup and burnt coffee and fry oil that probably needs to be changed more often. Every time I walk in here it brings me back to my childhood, as unconventional as my childhood was.

Uncle Sal is keeping office hours as usual. Nine o’clock, corner booth, every morning, as reliable as the sun coming up. Anyone who’s anyone in this city knows Sal’s standing reservation at Vin’s Diner. I’m fairly certain the city of New York would relocate the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge before asking Sal Delray to move tables.

Technically, he’s not my uncle. But he was a father figure to my father, and in our world, that’s practically blood.

It’s complicated.

He’s reading his newspaper when I walk over. Old school. He doesn’t look up.

I kiss his cheek before sliding in across from him.

“Hey Uncle Sal.”

“Hey Kid.”

He’s in the cream blazer today. I have spent twenty years wondering whether it’s one blazer or twelve identical blazers. He looks exactly the same as always. Thick black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. The bolo tie with the turquoise stone he claims came off a senator (though which senator depends on the decade and his mood), and the enormous gold pinky ring.

He folds the newspaper, looks at me over the rim of his glasses.

“So,” he says.

That is his invitation for anyone to get to the point. One of the things I love about Sal.

“I need to put together a crew,” I say.

He lifts his coffee cup. Considers it. Sets it back down. The western omelette is half-finished. White toast beside it, one piece gone. He’s been here a while. He is always here a while.

“What kind of crew?”

“Small. Six, maybe seven.” I fold my hands on the table. “I think I can get most of my usual girls. I just need two more.”

“Such as?”

“A smithy. Old school.”

He nods once.

“And… someone with DC connections.” I keep my voice easy. “A face.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he makes a low sound in the back of his throat, and says, “DC.”

The word sits between us like he placed it there on purpose and is waiting to see what I do with it.