Rita's eyes widen. "Oh, honey, that's so sweet of you, but I couldn't—"
"You could," I interrupt gently. "You've been taking care of people your whole life. Let someone take care of you for once, even in a small way."
Tears gather in the corners of her eyes, and she reaches across the table to squeeze my hand briefly. Her palm is warm and slightly rough from years of hard work, but her touch is gentle.
"You're a good man, Kent. I hope you know that."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Rita means them completely, sees something in me that she considers worthy of respect and affection. If she knew what my hands have done, what they're going to do tonight, she'd run screaming from this diner and never look back.
But she doesn't know. To her, I'm just someone who shows up consistently, treats her with courtesy, and caresenough to remember details about her life. In her world, that makes me good.
Maybe that's all goodness really is: an accumulation of small kindnesses, repeated consistently, offered without expectation of reward.
"I try to be," I say, which might be the most honest thing I've said in years.
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, both lost in our own thoughts. Through the window, I can see Murphy's Tavern three blocks down, its neon sign casting red light onto the sidewalk. Jenkins will be getting sloppy by now, his judgment impaired by alcohol and the comfort of being surrounded by men who share his particular brand of casual cruelty.
"Rita," I say eventually, "I need to step outside for a few minutes. Make a phone call. But I'll be back to finish my pie."
"Take your time, honey. I'll keep it warm for you."
I leave a twenty on the table—more than enough to cover the pie and coffee, plus a generous tip—and head for the door. The night air is cool against my skin, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and distant rain.
Murphy's Tavern is exactly what you'd expect from a cop bar: dim lighting, sticky floors, and the kind of atmosphere that encourages people to say things they'd never admit in daylight. I can hear laughter and raised voices even from across the street.
Jenkins's patrol car sits in the lot beside the building, along with three others. They're all off duty now, just four men unwinding after a long week of wielding authority over people who can't fight back. In an hour, maybe two, Jenkins will be drunk enough to stumble toward his car and realize he needs something from home first.
I check my watch. 9:18 p.m. His daughter, Delilah, will be starting her late shift at the café soon, the weekend job she takes to help pay for things her father should provide but doesn't.
I walk back into Maggie's Diner, where Rita has indeed kept my pie warm and refilled my coffee cup. She looks up as I settle back into the booth, that same genuine smile lighting up her tired face.
"Everything okay?" she asks.
"Perfect," I tell her, and for this moment, in this place, with this woman who sees goodness where others might see only darkness, it actually feels true.
But in two hours, when Jenkins gets home drunk and discovers he can't get inside his own house, the goodness will be over. What comes next will be necessary, justified, and absolutely ruthless.
Some people deserve protection. Others deserve exactly what they've earned.
Tonight, both debts come due.
Jenkins makes it easy for me.
Murphy's Tavern empties gradually as the night wears on. I watch from my truck, parked in the shadows of a closed gas station across the street, as Jenkins's drinking buddies say their goodbyes and drive away. First Rodriguez, then Martinez, finally Kowalski—all of them walking steady enough lines to their cars despite having consumed their weight in beer.
Jenkins is the last to leave, and he's clearly had more than the others. He fumbles with his jacket, drops something in the parking lot, curses loud enough that I can hear it through my closed windows. But he's not completely incapacitated—still functional enough to drive, which is probably his normal Friday night routine.
He climbs into his patrol car with the careful movements of someone who knows he's drunk but believes he can hide it. The engine starts on the second try, and I watch him pull out of the parking lot with exaggerated caution, the kind of over-precise driving that screams impairment to anyone paying attention.
I follow at a distance, headlights off, using the ambient street lighting to track his taillights through the residential streets. Jenkins drives exactly as I expected—slow, overly careful, taking turns wide and stopping too long at signs. It's a twelve-minute drive from Murphy's to his house, and he stretches it to nearly twenty with his paranoid pace.
His house sits at the end of Oakwood Street, a modest two-story colonial that was probably middle-class respectable twenty years ago but now shows the wear of deferred maintenance and financial stress. The paint is fading, the lawn needs work, and several shutters hang slightly askew. It's the kind of house that says its owner has given up on keeping up appearances.
Jenkins pulls into the driveway and sits in his car for a long moment, probably gathering himself for the walk to his front door. This is my window—the thirty seconds while he's distracted by the effort of appearing sober enough to function.
I'm out of my truck and moving before his car door opens fully. Jenkins is focused on not stumbling as he walks toward his house, keys already in his hand, when I make my approach. He's fumbling through his key ring, trying to identify the right one in the dim porch light, when I strike.
The motion is practiced, professional. A quick bump as I pass behind him, not hard enough to register as an attack, just clumsy enough to seem accidental. In the confusion of steadyinghimself, Jenkins doesn't notice that his house keys are no longer on his ring.
