Denver had been at the same county diner for hours, nearing some realization that he was trapped. Patrons came and went as he sat in the corner booth, nursing a cup of coffee while rubbing his last two quarters together. At thirty-two, he was still relatively young and resourceful. He could hitch a ride somewhere, but he had nowhere else to go. In the many years he had been away from home, nothing had changed. The same buildings flanked cracked asphalt roads. The same, simple people shuffled down the sidewalk, absent their surroundings. His return home hadn't gone as expected.
He scanned the diner, noticing empty booths and tables among the few patrons seated. It was just past noon, and there was no lunch rush in sight. Beth, his petite, pony-tailed server, had stopped asking him if he wanted anything else and allowed him to remain out of apparent politeness. Most people in town were just as well-mannered. An elderly couple sat by the window, eating. A disheveled-looking man in a T-shirt and flip-flops with bushy gray hair and sideburns sat near them, scrolling through his cell phone. A bearded man in a red flannel shirt sat in a corner booth by the windows, reading his newspaper between quick, curious glances in Denver's direction.
The back kitchen popped and hissed from behind the counter. Its greasy burger aroma made Denver's stomach rumble. He had little to show for anything beyond his carry bag and wrinkled two-hundred-dollar suit. There was no reason he couldn't get his feet back on the ground, but none of that mattered. He was too hungry to think of how to do it.
He rose and stretched toward the large pane windows where red-checkered drapes adorned all sides. The quiet parking lot and outside forest increased the sense of rural isolation. Denver straightened his tie and pulled at the sleeves of his coat as gambling debts plagued his mind. He had made too many mistakes and reached the point of no return. A fresh start seemed a distant dream, but he wasn't ready to give up, despite traveling cross-country on a Greyhound for days on end. He took a deep breath and approached the man with the sideburns from a few tables, trying to think of some friendly rapport as he observed the man's Tennessee Titans shirt.
"Hell of a game last night." He recalled a glimpse of the score from a smoky bar the night before.
The man looked up with a blank expression, sandwich in hand. "They blew it," he said with a disappointed tone, returning to his phone screen.
"Ah, they'll come back before the playoffs," Denver replied. He took a quick look around and then extended his hand, introducing himself. "Name's Jim. Nice to meet you." He rarely used his real name when meeting people. The less they knew the better.
The man offered a limp, disinterested shake in return. "Wayne."
Undeterred, Denver continued. "How about a beer, Wayne?"
Wayne shifted in his chair without response.
Denver leaned against an empty chair at the table and chuckled. "Never too early, right?"
"I'm fine, thanks," Wayne responded.
Denver gripped the chair, exposing a wedding ring on his left hand despite being divorced for over three years. "Wife's supposed to pick me up soon. We're visiting the in-laws. Unfortunately, I don't get along with them and had to hide out for a bit." He paused and then seated himself across from Wayne, who appeared befuddled toward his continued presence. "I tried to make it work last night. I really did. It's just..." he paused to notice Wayne staring at him. "I apologize. I'm not trying to bother you. Just getting a little stir crazy here."
Wayne slowly nodded as he looked toward the kitchen. Denver could sense his annoyance, but with the right words, he could change that. "It's been about five years since my last visit," he continued. "Terrible time to return. Damn wildfires spread for miles like an inferno."
Wayne scratched his chin. "That was a tragic mess. All those homes lost..."
"Did you make it out okay?" Denver asked, tracing the table with his finger.
Wayne set the sandwich down and looked away from his phone. "We moved here long after."
"Oh yeah?" Denver said. "What brought you to this little slice of life?"
Wayne hesitated as though he didn't want to elaborate. "Got a job with a logging company. The pay's good and the benefits are more than I expected."
Denver leaned closer with his arms folded. "They'd have to be. You know that logging tops the list of hazardous occupations."
Wayne shrugged as his eyes returned to his phone. Denver scrambled to further their conversation. "How about a beer?" he asked again, feeling hungover with an empty stomach.
Wayne grabbed a napkin and wiped his mouth. "No thanks."
Beth approached their table as he waved her over for the check.
Denver displayed two fingers. "Two cold ones for me and my friend here."
Wayne stared ahead at a loss of words. "Fine," he said, relenting.
Beth left them in awkward silence.
"You don't take no for an answer, do you?" Wayne said, studying the stranger before him.
Denver pulled a deck of cards from his coat pocket and began to shuffle. "Not really. There's no point in doing so."
Beth returned with the beers and a check. Wayne pulled a credit card from his wallet and handed it to her, wasting no time.
Denver dealt two cards across the table. "How about a round of Texas Hold'em?"
Wayne stared down at the cards and grabbed the ice-cold beer without response. He closed his eyes, pressing the tip of the bottle against his chin, hesitant. "You're a real bastard."
"I've heard worse," Denver said, lifting the ends of his cards up.
Wayne shook his head. "I don't drink anymore."
Denver held his hands out, surprised. "Why didn't you just tell me that from the beginning?"
"Because it's none of your damn business," Wayne snapped. He slammed the beer down as suds rushed to the top. They now had the attention of the other three patrons in the diner.
Denver laughed in response. "You're right. Let's just play some cards." Poker was his specialty. He had played the circuits to much success, only to lose his winnings through a slew of mistakes and hazy memories throughout his months in Vegas. He glanced up to see Wayne finishing his bottle in one desperate swig.
"Okay, that's it," Wayne said, setting the beer down. "If my wife finds out I'm here drinking, she'll cut my nuts off."
"Relax," Denver said. "No harm in a friendly game to pass the time."
Beth entered from the back kitchen with Wayne's receipt. Denver asked for another round, seemingly oblivious to everything he had just been told. He noticed Wayne's stunned glare and tried to put him at ease. "I'm bored as shit here. Help a guy out." With any luck, he'd get the money needed for bus fare out of town.
Wayne curiously lifted his cards and asked the question Denver had been waiting on, "Is this a money game?"
Denver ran one hand through his hair and prepared to lay the ground rules. "Is there any other kind?" He took a quick swig and continued. "Let's make it interesting—"
A loud, booming voice suddenly arose from the corner booth. "Hey, Wayne! Ain't you supposed to pick up Debbie at the parlor by now?"
Wayne froze as Denver zeroed in on the bearded man who had been watching them. His red plaid shirt and netted hat only intensified Denver's anger. Wayne turned around in a daze and then signed his receipt without another word. He grabbed his wallet and phone and stood up. His chair squeaked against the green-tiled floor as he apologized for an abrupt exit. "It's been fun, but I gotta go."
Denver watched as Wayne left the diner in a hurry. Upon hasty exit, Denver then rose and approached the bearded man with sheer contempt. "What the hell is your problem?"
The man casually folded his newspaper and put it aside. "Just looking out for a friend. If his wife finds out he's been drinking, she'll-"
"Cut his nuts off, I know," Denver said. "What business is it of yours?"
Amused, the man removed his red-knit hat, revealing a mullet of flat brown hair. He showed no signs of intimidation, despite Denver standing nearby with his fists balled and heart racing. The bearded man appeared to be of average height with broad shoulders and thick arms under the tightened fabric of his flannel shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, displaying the talons of a faded eagle or hawk tattoo ending at his forearm. His unblinking, silver eyes seemed to dare Denver to step closer. But in their moment of uncomfortable silence, he smiled. "Name's Russel. Friends call me Russ."
Beth approached from behind with two beers, confused. "Switching seats again, sir?"
Denver glanced at his former table where the two other fresh beers sat next to his cards. The stinging realization that he owed money for them flashed in his mind. His credit card was maxed out, and he had a negative balance on his bank account. He apologized and asked Beth if she would take them back. Her face dropped with a sigh, suggesting that her patience had come to an end.
"Put 'em on my tab," Russ interjected with a glance toward Denver. "You hungry?"
His kindness, however, had little effect. "No thanks."
Russ' eyes widened. "Really now?" He turned to Beth. "I'll get the beers anyway, and the check, please."
She set both bottles onto the table and left without question. The diner remained absent of customers beyond the elderly couple a few tables away.
"Have a seat, friend," Russ said, signaling to the empty bench across from him.
Denver ran both hands through his thick, greasy hair as he sat. Sunlight beamed from the window onto an oily plate that displayed the remnants of scrambled eggs and hash browns. He wondered just how long the man had been sitting there.
"What's your name?" Russ asked.
Denver flopped his hands onto the table, unable to make eye contact. "What's it matter?"
Russ studied him in a way that suggested he knew everything about him already. "That's some gratitude, stranger."
"I'm sorry," Denver said after a deliberate pause. He scratched the back of his neck, nervous and on edge. "I appreciate the help. It hasn't been my day."
Russ nodded. "I can tell." He sipped his coffee and continued. "You've been here all morning, lost in space. I know how that goes."
Denver glanced up, exhausted. "What about you? What's your story?"
Russ rubbed the chest of his overalls and then clasped his hands. "I run a salvage yard up the road off I-20. It's been in the family for years."
"Nice," said Denver as he took a long, refreshing swill of beer.
Russ held his own bottle up with a nod. Beth returned with the check and asked if they wanted anything else. The question went to Denver once again from Russ.
"You sure you're not hungry? Don't worry, I can spare it for a guy down on his luck."
Denver felt his pride waning. If a stranger wanted to buy him a meal, who was he to say otherwise? Maybe the man was being nice, though Denver's hardened instincts told him otherwise. "Sure," he said, glancing at a paper menu. "I'll take a cheeseburger, medium well, please."
Beth nodded and turned to Russ. "You want me to add that to—"
"You got it, darlin'," he answered with a smile.
Denver waited for Beth to leave before thanking him once again.
"Not a problem," Russ said.
"But I've got a rule about accepting kindness from--"
"Relax," Russ said. "I sympathize with your plight."
"Sure, you do," Denver said, knocking his beer back. "What's your angle?"
The bell sounded from the entrance as two men entered wearing camouflage jackets. They knocked sand from dirty boots onto the floor mat and approached a table far enough away to not be a bother. Beth happily arrived at their table as though they were regulars.
"I want to help," Russ continued, "but first, you need to tell me a little somethin' about yourself.
"Nothing to tell," Denver said. "I'm the most uninteresting man in America."
Russ shrugged as he pointed to Denver's hand. "You really married, or is that part of the ruse?"
The question seemed oddly forthcoming. Denver held his tongue and tried to answer without sounding defensive. "No... I'm not married."
"Where are you from?" Russ asked without hesitation.
Denver glanced toward the kitchen where the faint aroma of burgers pained his empty stomach. He scratched the stubble on his left cheek and answered. "I'm from here, actually. Born and raised, but I've been away a long time."
Russ leaned forward, hands clasped. "Why'd you come back?"
Denver stared outside the window as an eighteen-wheeler roared past the diner like a freight train. "I came back to visit the parents," he began. "I needed there help, but my father and I... we don't get along."
Russ spoke brazenly. "They're disappointed in you."
Denver whipped his head back and faced Russ with narrowed eyes. "Hey, screw you, pal."
Laughter followed from Russ. He seemed to be enjoying every minute. "Easy there. I have a proposition for ya'. Like I said, I want to help."
Denver tapped down against the table with his index finger. "Get to the point. No more bullshit."
Russ leaned back against the padded vinyl seat. "What do you or did you do for work?" His rested eyes and indifferent smile gave every indication Denver wasn't going anywhere.
"I've done it all," Denver began, frustrated. "I've went from fry cook to playing the poker circuits around Vegas." He paused and tried to remember what had come before that. "It was a mistake coming back here."
"What's your name?" Russ asked.
Before Denver could answer, Beth arrived with his mouth-watering cheeseburger and fries. He knew the consequences in accepting such generosity, but it wasn't enough to stop him from shoving the burger into his mouth, devouring it in several ravenous bites. "The name's Denver," he said between chews.
Russ nodded. "Denver, how'd you like to make some money?"
The question had finally emerged. Denver wiped his mouth and stared ahead, deeply skeptical.
"Nothing shady, I promise," Russ clarified. "I could use an outgoing man like yourself for a little job."
"Uh-huh," Denver said, squeezing a ketchup bottle over his fries.
Russ stretched his arms forward and took a deep breath. "There's a man by the name of Vincent Howell. He lives up in a cabin in the mountains all by himself. I need you to find him."
Denver bit into a handful of fries, curious. "Go on."
"Easy cash," said Russ, undeterred. "All you have to do is play the part."
Denver was broke, but he still had his senses and knew a problematic offer when he heard one. He glanced out the window, picking at teeth. "Listen, Russ, I may not look like much from where you're sitting, but I'm not someone to fuck with. Why don't you do it yourself?"
Russ tapped the table, staring down in thought. "I'd be happy to elaborate. Maybe you're the man for this, maybe you're not." He unexpectedly grabbed his newspaper and rose from his seat. "You want the job, I'll see you outside." He then left the table without another word.
Denver watched in confusion as Russ exited the diner without looking back. He passed by the window, placing his hat on, and approached an old red pickup truck in the parking lot. Denver glanced down at his plate where a few fries remained. Part of him wanted nothing to do with it, but there was no reason he couldn't at least hear the man out.
He stood and placed his last two quarters onto the table, watching outside as Russ opened the driver's side of his truck and climbed in. Denver went to the other table to retrieve his playing cards and carry bag. The two new arrivals joked with Beth as she brought them some cold beers. The elderly couple across the way looked content at their table as they quietly read. Denver wondered if there was anyone else there who could help him. Russ was a suspicious character, but with real money on the line, what other choice did he have? Denver hoisted his carry bag over his shoulder and left the diner, hoping to never lay eyes on its green-tiled floors and checkered curtains again.