Chapter 10 - The Night Shift
At 4:30 in the morning, the heavy black SUV pulled up to the curb outside Moran’s Grill.
The rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and reflective beneath the yellow glow of the streetlights. The elevated train tracks overhead dripped water rhythmically onto the roof of the vehicle.
Emma stepped out, wearing her old flannel shirt and jeans over her arm, carrying the black silk dress in a neat garment bag, her purse heavy with a one-hundred-thousand-dollar cashier’s check and a legal bill of sale signed by Voss’s corporate attorneys twenty minutes prior.
She pushed open the diner’s front door. The bell above the threshold chimed softly.
Frank Moran was sitting in a booth near the back, a cup of lukewarm black coffee in his hands. He looked terrible—his skin pale, his eyes sunken, his posture hunched like a man waiting for a police squad car to pull into the parking lot.
When he heard the bell, he jerked upward, his coffee splashing over the table.
He stared at Emma as if he were seeing a ghost.
“Emma?” he whispered, his voice trembling violently. “You... you’re back?”
Emma walked slowly down the aisle between the vinyl booths, her shoes squeaking softly against the linoleum. She stopped at his table, looking down at him with an absolute, icy calm that made Frank shrink back into the vinyl cushions.
“Where’s Pierce?” Frank stammered, his eyes darting frantically toward the front windows, looking for the black SUV. “What happened out there? Did... did you serve the dinner?”
Emma didn't answer his questions.
She reached into her purse, pulled out the legal bill of sale, and laid it flat on the table right beside his coffee cup.
Frank frowned, leaning forward to read the document. As his eyes scanned the official notary stamp, the Voss corporate seal, and his own forged signature on the deed transfer line, his face went from pale to completely ash-gray.
“What... what is this?” Frank gasped, looking up at her in horror. “This says... this says Moran’s Grill has been sold! This says I don't own the building!”
“You don't,” Emma said softly. “I do.”
Frank stood up so fast his knees slammed against the table. “That’s impossible! This is a forgery! I’ll call the police! I’ll—”
“You won't call anyone, Frank,” Emma interrupted, her voice dropping into a low, crystalline register that silenced him instantly. “Because if you call the police, or if you step off this property without my permission, I’ll personally call Mr. Voss and tell him you want to discuss your outstanding debt with him in person.”
Frank went completely rigid. The mention of Voss’s name seemed to drain whatever remaining life was left in his body. He collapsed back into the booth, his mouth hanging open, his hands shaking so violently he had to grip the edge of the table to stay upright.
“What... what are you going to do to me?” Frank whimpered.
Emma walked behind the counter. She hung her heavy coat on the peg near the kitchen door, picked up a clean white apron, and tied it neatly around her waist.
She picked up a fresh pot of coffee, walked back to Frank’s table, and filled his cup to the brim.
“I’m not going to do anything to you, Frank,” Emma said, resting both hands on the table and leaning down until her face was inches from his. “You’re going to work the night shift. Starting tonight. You’re going to clean the grease traps, you’re going to scrub the floors, and you’re going to serve decaf to the cabdrivers until every penny of your debt is paid off.”
Frank stared at her, tears of pure, miserable humiliation welling in his red-rimmed eyes. “Emma... please...”
“It’s Boss now, Frank,” Emma said softly, turning her back on him and walking over to the front register.
May you like
She unlocked the cash drawer, stepped behind the counter, and turned the neon sign in the front window from CLOSED to OPEN.
Outside, a morning train thundered along the elevated tracks, washing the street in bright, flickering light, as Emma Brooks stood behind her counter, completely free, completely undefeated, and ready for the morning rush.
