Grab

Начало книги

Letty Dobesh reached to freshen up a trucker's coffee from behind the counter. His name was Dale or Dan or Dave—something that started with a D. He was a regular. A creepy regular. Came into the diner several times a week. Tall, lanky, never-tipping guy who always wore a red down vest and a John Deere mesh hat.

As Letty filled his mug, he grinned, said, "Know what would look good on you?"

This should be good.

"No, what's that?" she asked without risking eye contact.

"Me."

Now she did meet his eyes. They were small and brown and contained a volatile energy that she recognized—he was a hitter.

"That's beautiful," she said. "You should write Hallmark cards."

The man laughed like he wasn't sure if he'd been insulted.

Her manager called her name from the grill.

"Be there in a sec!" she said.

"No, Letisha. Not in a sec. Now."

She set the pot of coffee back on the warmer and wiped her hands off on her apron. An image blindsided her: Letty at seventy, hobbling around the diner on arthritic feet, hands like claws from a lifetime of this.

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