The small cafe he frequented was situated between a watch repair shop and a used bookstore. It was one of those places only known by locals. A red neon sign hung inside a plate glass window, flashing an outline of a cup of coffee with steam rising from the cup.
The cafe had been around since the early fifties. The current owners refurbished the interior but still kept it decorated from that era. Booths and chairs were covered in shiny, red vinyl. The chair frames were made of chrome. Tabletops were standard white Formica. Against the wall next to the front door was a jukebox, original to the cafe. Tonight, it remained silent.
The door swung open. Grant stepped back, as he grabbed the curved, stainless steel handle. A young couple, bundled up like they’d been to the North Pole, rushed past him, running toward G Street.
Once inside, he removed his cap, and smoothed back strands of brown hair from his forehead. He picked out a booth near the back, away from the window, then headed for it. The cafe didn’t have any seating hostess. Customers were on their own. Tonight the place was practically empty, most likely because of the cold.
Standing next to the table, he gave a quick glance at three other customers sitting at the counter, all three hunched over coffee cups, sipping their hot drinks.
Removing his gloves, he shoved them and his cap into his pockets, then unzipped his jacket. He slid across the seat, feeling more comfortable near the wall.
A young waiter, wearing white shirt and black pants, walked to his table. He took a pencil from behind his ear, then used the tip of the eraser to push a blond curl from his forehead. “What can I get you?” he said lifting an order pad from his shirt pocket.
Grant looked momentarily at the kid without responding. The curly blond hair caught his attention.
“Something wrong, mister?”
“Oh, no. You just reminded me of a young man I met not too long ago.” Chris Southere. The young man was the nephew of one of the POWs.
“So, what can I get you?”
Grant saw a stick-on name tag on the shirt pocket. “Just black coffee, Brian.”
“You don’t want anything to eat?”
“Maybe later,” Grant answered, assuming the kid didn’t think his tip would be big enough from just an order of coffee. Gotta be a college student, he thought.
Grant blew warm breath into his hands as he watched Brian carrying an overflowing cup to the table. Some of the black brew splashed over the rim, running down the sides.
“Here you go,” Brian said, putting the white mug in front of Grant. He dropped the bill on the edge of the table.
As he started to leave, Grant said, “Hold it.” He removed his wallet from inside his jacket. “Are you in college?”
“Not yet. I start in September.”
Grant took out five dollars, picked up the bill and handed money and bill to the kid.
“I’ll bring your change in a minute.”
“Keep it,” Grant answered, as he slid the mug closer.
“But the coffee was only…!”
“I know.”
“Thanks! Thanks a lot, mister! Just let me know if you need anything else.”
Grant pulled a couple of paper napkins from a metal container and wiped the spilled coffee. He picked up the mug and took a sip.
A rush of cold air surged into the cafe as the front door opened, bringing with it a sound of street noise. A man walked into the cafe, with the door automatically closing behind him. He wore a black leather coat with a white scarf wrapped around his neck. He stood there for a moment before removing his black leather gloves. He was tall, maybe in his early sixties, and somebody who looked to be in good shape. His hair had heavy streaks of gray, nearly covering dark brown strands.
Letting his eyes roam around the cafe, he finally settled his gaze on Grant. Then, he started walking toward the back of the cafe.
Grant put the mug on the table, keeping his eyes on the stranger. His senses immediately went on alert. He pressed his back against the seat, waiting, wrapping both hands around the hot coffee mug.
The man stopped next to the table. Grant looked up at this stranger, trying to pull out a name from somewhere in his brain, trying to match it to the face he was looking at. Nothing. A complete blank.
“Hello, Captain Stevens.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Sorry, but you don’t look familiar. Am I supposed to know you?”
“Probably not.”
“Then let’s try this question. Do I know of you?” The stranger gave no indication he was about to reply. Grant pressed further, not sure if he wanted this to continue. “Come on. Give me something. Not even an introduction?”
“Perhaps in time. Would you mind if I sat with you for a while?”
“Does it matter if I say ‘no’?”
The man slapped his gloves against his opposite palm, then smiled slightly. “Please. I’d like to talk with you.”
Trying to prepare himself for just about anything now, Grant responded, “The seat’s yours. But don’t plan on staying long.”
The stranger dropped his gloves on the table then unwound his cashmere scarf from his neck. He sat down heavily on the vinyl seat, directly opposite Grant.
The waiter rushed over to the new customer. “Can I get you anything?”
Without taking his eyes from Grant’s, the man replied, “Not now.”
No words passed between the two men for what seemed like a very long minute. Red flags starting popping up in Grant’s brain, signaling caution. What made him more uncomfortable was the thought this guy could’ve followed him from his apartment.
He pushed the coffee cup aside, then propped his elbows on the table. Squeezing one fist with his other hand, he finally said, “Look, I don’t have ESP. So, are you gonna tell me what this is about?”
The man gave an almost indiscernible smile. “Let’s just say I have a proposition for you.”
Grant leaned back, then pulled the coffee mug closer to the edge of the table. He arched an eyebrow and asked, “A proposition? You won’t tell me who you are, but you want to make me a proposition?”
“Would it help if I told you that we have a mutual friend?”
“It would help even more if you told me who you and this friend of yours were.”
“What I will tell you, Captain, is that you come very highly recommended by this ‘friend.’”
Grant sipped on his warm coffee, looking dead-on at this stranger, a stranger whose answer was beginning to intrigue him. “I’m gonna get a warm-up. Want something?”
“Coffee.”
Grant motioned for the waiter, then ordered two coffees. Once the waiter left, Grant held the mug close to his lips, blowing some breath into the fresh, hot brew.
As the man stirred sugar into his coffee, Grant broke the brief silence. “Whoever this ‘friend’ is, I guess he didn’t tell you I’m no longer on active duty. I’ve retired. You don’t have to call me ‘Captain.’”
“Oh, no. He told me. That’s the main reason why I’m here.” The man continued stirring the coffee, then he leaned against the table and lowered his voice. “He told me about your ‘adventures’ and accomplishments over the course of your career. I know what you’ve done for this country. In my opinion, Grant Stevens, you still deserve to be called ‘Captain.’”
Grant put the coffee mug on the table and pushed it aside. Taking a quick glance around the cafe, he noticed that he and “whoever he was” were the only two customers remaining. Closing time was twenty-three hundred hours. It was approaching twenty-one fifteen.
Watching Grant look around the room, he asked, “I assume we’re alone?”
“Yeah. Yeah, we are. Does that mean you’re about to give me more… ” Grant became quiet, then said suspiciously, with his eyes narrowing, “Tell me you’re not with the ‘Cowboys.’” He referred to the CIA, the “Cowboys In Action.”