Danny knew the route.
“How much do you have?”
“Enough.”
That answer meant no.
She reached into her apron.
Tuesday tips were bad.
Wednesday had been worse.
Payday was Friday.
She had exactly thirty-eight dollars in cash until then, not counting the money in her account reserved for rent and electricity.
Danny pulled out a five-dollar bill and two singles.
The old man stepped back.
“No.”
She held them out.
“Keep it.”
“I can't take that from you.”
“Yes, you can.”
“You already gave me breakfast.”
“And now I'm making sure you get home.”
“I can manage.”
Danny put the bills on the counter.
“Then manage with bus fare.”
“Get something warm later.”
The old man stared.
“You're a difficult young woman.”
“I've been told.”
He slowly took the money.
“Thank you, Danny.”
She blinked.
“You know my name?”
He pointed toward her name tag.
DANNY.
She laughed.
“Right.”
“I'm Walter.”
“Nice to meet you, Walter.”
He put on his cap.
Then stepped outside into the snow.
Danny watched until he disappeared around the corner.
She had no idea the man she had just fed owned the building across the street.
Or that he owned two houses in the city, a lake house in Michigan, and enough commercial property that his accountants required accountants.
She had no idea Walter Ashford had not needed her seven dollars.
And when she eventually learned the truth, that seven dollars would become one of the reasons she almost never spoke to him again.
Walter walked three blocks before taking out his phone.
The screen was hidden inside the lining of his coat.
One missed call.
James.
Walter called.
The answer came immediately.
“Mr. Ashford?”
“Where are you?”
“Two minutes away, sir.”
“Good.”
A black Lincoln pulled to the curb shortly afterward.
James Holloway stepped out.
Fifty-four.
Gray suit.
No tie.
Walter’s driver, assistant, fixer, and one of only three people on earth who could tell Walter Ashford he was being ridiculous without losing his job.
James opened the rear door.
Then looked at Walter.
“Interesting.”
Walter climbed in.
James took the driver’s seat.
Only after the doors closed did he say:
“Mr. Ashford, are you wearing that coat again?”
Walter looked down.
“Careful.”
“It’s a rag.”
“An expensive rag.”
“It came from a thrift store.”
“I paid eighteen dollars.”
“Exactly.”
Walter removed his knit cap.
His posture changed.
Not deliberately.
The moment he entered the car, the old man from the diner became Walter Ashford again.
Founder of Ashford Urban Development.
Sixty-eight years old.
Net worth nobody around him mentioned unless lawyers were present.
Father of one son.
Widower for eleven years.
James pulled into traffic.
“How was it today?”
Walter looked through the window.
“How was what?”
“The disguise.”
Walter disliked the word.
“It wasn't a disguise.”
James looked at him in the mirror.
“You left a six-thousand-dollar watch in my glove compartment, put on eighteen-dollar clothing, and rode city buses while pretending not to have money.”
“That is very nearly the definition.”
Walter ignored him.
“A woman gave me this.”
He held up the folded bills.
James stared.
“She gave you money?”
“She thought I needed bus fare.”
“Did you tell her you own three houses?”
“No.”
“That you own the office building next to the diner?”
“No.”
“That you could buy the diner?”
Walter frowned.
“Gus would never sell.”
“That was not the point.”
Walter folded the seven dollars carefully.
James asked:
“Why didn't you tell her?”
Walter looked at the money.
“Because then I wouldn't have known who she was.”
James sighed.
Walter knew the sigh.
Disapproval.
His late wife Margaret used to make the same sound.
The truth was that Walter had started the ritual after Margaret died.
Not every week.