A man’s past catches up with him in a small diner.

When I walk into the diner, I see right off that things aren’t right. No one’s talking, for starters, and there’s some strange folk sitting at a couple of tables. Now, here in the diner, we get lots of folk just stopping in for a cup of coffee, or families on vacation, but mostly the people who come here to eat are either long-haul drivers that stop whenever they come by, or else locals like me. These new folks just don’t fit into any of the categories — they look like gangsters from the movies.

That’s my first thought, anyway. They’re wearing suits, nice ones that look expensive. They maybe have bulges under the arms, but that’s probably my imagination. The three at the middle table have their hair cut short, and sort of slicked down, and the one by himself in the back corner’s got his longer, and pulled back into a ponytail. They’re all four of them pretty big, and they just look dangerous. I guess that’s what makes me think of gangsters, even though I wouldn’t know a real gangster if I saw one.

So, anyway, that’s why it’s so quiet when I come in. These new folks just sort of damp down everyone’s usually good spirits, and keep the chatter to a minimum. Partly it’s the locals being quiet out of a sort of reserve that they have around strangers, and partly it’s everyone hoping to overhear something interesting from the gangsters. When I first moved here, fifteen years ago, they’d be quiet around me like that. It took about three years for them to start treating me like a welcome guest, and another five or so to become one of them.

So now I’ve got a regular seat at the counter that they keep for me, and a regular order, and I’m up on all the gossip. I slide into my chair, and wave at Randi to bring me a cup of tea. Marlon’s sitting in his usual spot, two down from me, and Jackson’s not in his normal chair between us. I nod hello to Marlon, and smile a thank-you at Randi when she brings me my cup.

“Special’s chicken-fried steak tonight, hon.”

“Really? But it’s Thursday.” Thursday is usually meatloaf. I hate the meatloaf here, but it’s still strange to have it not be the Thursday special.

“Yup. Carl got a deal on some nice fast-fry steaks, so he’s using them up.”

“Okay. I’ll have the special,” I say, as if there’s any doubt. I come in for dinner maybe three times a week, and I always have the special. Even when it’s meatloaf.

So I’m sitting there, waiting for my chicken-fried steak, and staring blankly at the TV set, which is tuned to some inane sitcom. I’ve got my ears open, just like Marlon and Randi, just in case one of the gangsters starts talking about something interesting. In general, I’m just waiting.

Someone slips into Jackson’s chair, and I turn for a second to look at who it is. Turns out it’s the ponytail gangster, and he’s looking at me. A chill that I thought was a long way behind me sort of curls up out of my guts, and my shoulders go rigid. This could get bad. Real bad.

“I’m a traveler from the East,” he says, and all I can think of is, “Oh, fuck.” Kipling has a lot to answer for, in my book.

I don’t want to answer, but I know I have to answer. It’s not any sort of compulsion, or anything weird like that, but I have to. Something about promises made, even in a different life, still has a hold on me. Guess I have to move on, again. After I’ve dealt with Ponytail here.

“Where are you going?”

“To the West. I search for that which was lost.”

“I am the one for which you seek.”

“I need a favor. For the sake of the Widow’s Son.”

“Of course you do,” I sigh. I pull a felt pen from my pocket, and write my unlisted number on a napkin for him. “Call me in two hours. Now go away and let me eat.”

As he reaches for napkin, I see that he’s wearing a leather band around his wrist, twisted a half-turn into a mobius strip. I take a closer look at him, and really don’t like what I see. He’s got faint little stains around his hairline, like he’s just dyed his hair, and he’s not too good at it. Around his cuffs and collar, there’s a narrow edge of ink peeking out — serious tattoos. He’s got a Horus Eye earring in his left ear, and he’s wearing contacts, probably colored.

Crap. He’s not just some little Lodge Brother looking for a reference, or a true seeker looking for a deeper initiation from the crazy old outcast. This guy’s already stumbled into some serious shit, and he’s got bad folks looking for him. The night just gets shittier and shittier. Definitely time to move on.

He’s moving back to his table now, and I see that he’s got one of those metal courier briefcases with him, and it’s cuffed to his wrist. He’s obviously carrying something hot, and that’s probably the reason for him needing a favor.

Randi brings me my plate, and asks, “Who’s your friend, Hiram?” When I picked the name, when I first moved here, I thought it would be a good joke. Now, I’m sick of hearing it, that old, stale, almost-humor that just gets more grating as time goes by. That’ll teach me to try and be clever.

“Not my friend, hon. Friend of a friend of a friend, sorta thing, You know how it goes.” Randi nods, and moves off. She knows I’m dodging the question, but I know she’s not going to pry. That’s the kind of place it is. That’s why I came here.

And now I’m going to have to leave. Shit. I liked this place.

Anyway, Ponytail heads out. The other gangsters don’t take any notice, and the chill comes back even stronger. Everyone else watched the guy leave, but these folks just keep their eyes on us. That’s just not right, and it’s probably all part and parcel of the badness that I’m about to take a nosedive into.

I eat slow, trying to put off the inevitable, and to try and come up with something clever to save my ass. I haven’t got a lot of hope, but I try anyway. I’ve had a couple of amazing runs of luck in my lifetime, and every single one of them came from some last-minute desperation plan. Maybe I can get one of those started tonight, and slide clear before the hammer comes down. The best I can come up with is to pack a case before Ponytail calls, so that I can blow town immediately afterwards. As plans go, it’s a great pipe dream.

So, of course it goes to shit, this being the evening for that sort of transformation.

I haven’t seen the woman who walks through the door in nearly seventeen years, and I hoped never to see her again. I’ve never been really clear on who she works for, but I know that she’s running someone else’s errands, and her boss has a lot of money, and a pretty good handle on how things are connected. Last time I saw her, she was calling herself Diane, but that’s no more her name than Hiram is mine.

She heads over to the gangsters at the table, obviously in a hurry. I stuff the last of the steak in my mouth and wash it down with tea, digging in my pocket for the wallet, so that I can pay my bill and sneak out before she takes a good luck at us regulars at the counter. I figure it’s a lost cause, but I have to try.

I knew a guy, once, who was a magician. Card trick kind. He was pretty good, but he never made any money at it, just doing it as a hobby. Anyway, he told me once that having hands faster than the eye was a bad idea, because the brain reacts more to fast movement than to slow. Part of our primitive lizard-brain keeping us poor little mammals safe from predators, or else part of our hunter brains making sure that we can spot the prey as it breaks cover. Either way, he said that the way to make sure that no one sees the move in a magic trick is to do it slow, and to do it as far removed as possible from the climax, so then you can sit back and relax.

Of course, all this comes to mind as I’m rushing to be gone from the diner, and that catches Diane’s eye. And I’m caught hanging there, like a card only half-way up a sleeve.

“Look who we have here. I should’ve known he’d be running to someone like you.” All of a sudden, the three guys from the table are clustered around my stool, and Diane slides into Jackson’s empty spot. Marlon does a quick fade, and I can’t say that I blame him.

Randi comes over, and says, “Help you folks?” One of the big guys gives her a fifty and tells her to take a break. She looks a question at me, and I nod, so she heads into the kitchen.

“Know who this is, boys? This is the famous Cagliostro. Or one of them, anyway. I’ve met about seven. Anyway, this Cagliostro is known for his disappearing acts. He’s up and vanished on several interested parties a number of times. He’s good at it. And he sometimes helps other people do it, too. Sounds like someone our boy would come running to, doesn’t it?”

The guys don’t say anything, of course. Not their job.

I sigh, and say, “Hi, Diane. Why don’t you try the pie? The raisin is especially good.” This is followed by the obligatory grunt as one of the guys pushes his knuckle into my kidney. Doesn’t punch me, just kind of pokes and leans his weight behind it. It hurts, but there’s no fast movement. Maybe he knows my magician buddy.

“We’re looking for a guy. He wants to vanish. He’s got something we want. We want it back. Have you seen him?”

“I’m out of the game, Diane. I don’t mess with the weird stuff anymore. I learned my lesson.” She had been one of the people to teach me the lesson, three years back. Broke up a rather profitable circle of secret lodges recruiting from the Masons. Yeah, it’s a cheap dodge, but I wasn’t hurting anyone, and I wasn’t messing with any of the real players. I just knew a few little tricks that helped keep people interested, and me under the radar. Anyway, it didn’t end well, and I dropped the game and came out here.

“That’s not the way I hear it, Cal. Word is you’ve been teaching. If the boss knew you were willing to teach, we might have made an equitable settlement. Now it looks like you were holding out.”

“Jesus, Diane, all I’ve done is give people a few pointers on how to be unnoticeable. Simple stuff, like inside-out clothes and crap like that. I’m not teaching anything. Honest.” There’s a whine in my voice that I hate, but I was no match for Diane seventeen years ago, and I’m sure as shit no match for Diane and the triplets seventeen years later. I’m old, now. I don’t heal very well anymore.

“That’s good. We’ll just sit here, then, and wait for our guy to show up, and then we take him and get out of your life. Just don’t be stupid.”

I know they’re looking for Ponytail, and he’s obviously got enough layers of masking on himself that they didn’t see him. Probably that was because they were looking for him. The kid’s got a little slick to him. Once he doesn’t show here, and I don’t answer my phone at home a few times, he’ll run for it. Problem solved all around. I relax a little, thinking that I just might make it through this after all.

The goon squad moves back to their table, but Diane stays sitting behind me. After about five minutes, Randi comes back in, and gives me another pot of hot water for my tea. I order a slice of the raisin pie, just because I can’t stop thinking about it after mentioning it to Diane. It is very good, but it still sits like lead in my gut.

After about three hours, probably an hour and a half after Ponytail should have made his break for someplace friendlier, everyone’s getting a little tired. And grumpy. Randi should have gone off-shift an hour ago, when Stephanie showed up, but she’s hanging around and helping out, not wanting to miss out on the most excitement anyone around here has seen in years.

Diane is less entertained. She’s watching the door, and the clock, and checking her watch, and tapping her spoon on the counter. She’s getting more and more fed up with the whole thing. Finally, I say to her, “You sure he’s coming here?”

She starts to say yes, she’s sure, but then stops and gets a doubtful look. She pulls a cell phone from her pocket, and hits a speed dial number.

“He hasn’t shown.” Pause. “No, no sign at all. Maybe he faked us out.” Longer pause. “I understand.” Pause. “Well, it’s not a complete loss. We found an old friend hiding here.” Pause. “Cagliostro.” Pause. “No, the one from the Aegyptus Numina Lodge.” Long pause. “Yeah, that’s what we thought, too, but there’s no sign. None.” Medium pause. “Okay, I’ll bring him.” She hangs up and turns to me. “Boss says to bring you in.”

I get cold all over, and I feel like the pie’s going to come right back up again. “No. Please, just leave me here. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m out of the game. Really out.” The whine is back, but I’m too busy keeping my sixty-three-year-old bladder from letting go.

“Sorry, Cal. Orders.”

“Why’re you in my seat?”

Every head in the place turns to look at Jackson, who seems to have sprouted from the floor, right behind Diane. I hear chairs scraping as the triplets jump from their seats, and Diane almost falls off the stool, she turns around so fast. Jackson can do that to you. He’s huge, but he moves real quiet, and he can be hard to notice, somehow. At first I thought it was some sort of weird shit like the players back in the day, the ones that you steered clear of if you wanted to live. After a while, though, I realized that it was just the fact that Jackson was so busy trying not to break anything or run into anything, that he sort of slipped through the world like a fish through water.

“Almost done here, Tiny,” Diane says, and I cringe at her mistake. Jackson’s brow clouds up like a thunderstorm, slow and relentless. Did I mention he’s huge? I mean, he stands six-ten in his socks, and he always wears these heavy work boots, which add maybe another inch to his height. From a distance, though, you’d swear he was short and squat. That’s just because his shoulders are so wide, and he’s layered with so much muscle. The proportions fool you until you see him against something that gives him some context.

Like the triplets, who have their hands inside their jackets now.

“Miss, I don’t know who you are, but you shouldn’t make fun like that.” He speaks slow, like a child, or someone with mental problems. He doesn’t have mental problems, though. He’s just as careful with his words as he is with his body.

“Look, Bubba, this is a private conversation. Back off now if you know what’s good for you.”

“You okay, Hiram?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. These folks are just taking me for a drive, now. No problems.”

He looks them over, then shakes his head. “You don’t gotta go, if you don’t want to, Hiram. You can stay here.” Like I said, no mental problems. Jackson’s quick inside, where you can’t really see it.

“Stay out of this, pal. Last warning.”

Jackson ignores her. “You wanna stay here, Hiram?”

I know it’s trouble. I know the shit’s going to hit the fan. I know that Jackson and me are both probably dead. I just can’t help myself. I say, “Yeah. I wanna stay here.”

He nods, like it’s all decided now. He turns to the triplets, and says, “No guns in here, boys,” and they pull their hands away, empty. “Go wait in the car,” and out they troop. Damnedest thing I ever saw.

Diane’s staring like she agrees with me, and looking Jackson up and down. He looks just like an aging trucker, except for his size, and there’s nothing about him that smacks of the strangeness Diane and her kind are into.

He says to her, “Miss, I don’t wanna be rude, but you got to leave now. You shouldn’t ever come back, either. And leave this man alone. He’s my friend.”

She looks like she’s going to try to object, but can’t quite find the words. Then her face gets mean, and she makes some weird sort of gesture with her hand. Jackson looks at her sadly, and shakes his head.

“That kinda thing won’t work here, miss. This is my place, and I still got some power in my own place, no matter about the rest of the world. Go now. And mind what I told you.” And she goes. I don’t believe it, but she goes.

I stammer out a sort of disjointed thank-you to Jackson as he settles on his stool. He beams at me, the way he smiles at everyone whenever they thank him, and says, “You’re welcome,” like a kid repeating his manners lesson to his grandma. Things are sort of falling into place for me, now. I know a little bit more than the average guy about strange stuff, and I think maybe I got him pegged.

So I take a chance.

Halfway through his second dessert, I lean over to Jackson during one of the commercials, and whisper, “So, buddy, are you a King? Is that your deal?”

He smiles his big, happy grin at me, and shakes his head. “There’s other things that look out for their chosen people, Hiram. And all they want is a thank-you.”

And I leave it at that, because I think that my friend just told me that he’s some sort of god.