It all started for me when I took a job at the luncheonette. You know the kind, hardly anything more than a grill and a long counter with stools built into the floor. There was only one table in the place, in the back corner. It was their table. Nobody else ever sat there and they would come in most mornings and a lot of afternoons. Mostly they just hung out for a couple hours, jazzing around and drinking coffee. They were good tippers, and since nobody but them ever sat at that table anyway, it never bothered me that they didn't order much or stayed so long.

I never gave much thought to who they were until a plain clothes cop came in one day. He sat down on a stool next to the door, as far away from the table as possible and motioned for me to come over. He ordered a coffee and a couple of fritters, and when I brought them to him, he asked if I knew anything about the guys in the back. I shrugged with one of those 'what are ya askin me for, I just work here' shrugs. And to tell the truth, I didn't know anything about them, except that they kept to themselves, tipped well and didn't cause me or anybody else any hassle. What else did I need to know?

The plain clothes wanted to know about one guy, in particular. This guy always sat in the same seat, his back to the corner, facing the door. He was there more than most the others, always keeping one eye on the door as the others would come in, have a couple cups of coffee and some conversation then leave. He would arrive early, by seven or eight, and sit by himself, drinking coffee and going through slips of paper in his wallet until the other guys started trickling in around nine. Most days he would take off around noon or one o'clock and not come back until the next morning. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was running a business, and that table was his office. None of this really occurred to me as I was talking to the cop. I had never had any reason to think about it. As far as I was concerned, they were just regular customers. I liked them because they were more regular than most.

After the cop left, I got to thinking and decided I had better mention it to the guy in the corner. The lunch counter was in a part of town were everyone was running from something and you never knew what kind of mistake they were trying to keep one step ahead of. He didn't say much when I told him, just nodded. But, the next morning when I brought over his coffee, he asked if anyone had been looking for him. He asked every morning when he came in, until a week or so later when the cop came back.

The cop sat in the same place, ordered the same thing and asked the same questions. And, I shrugged an answer the same way before. After he left, I glanced at the back, and nodded to the guy in the corner and nothing more was said about it until the next morning, when he came in and I brought him his coffee as usual. He motioned for me to take a seat and as I sat down, asked me if I liked working at the luncheonette. I shrugged, and said I was sure there were better jobs, but it was a painless way to keep the bills paid and a roof over my head. He then leaned forward, and asked if I could do him a favor. He was talking quietly, even though the restaurant was still empty, and I had to pay close attention to hear him. I shrugged and indicated that there were different kinds of favors and he nodded and explained what he wanted me to do. It was simple enough, just a matter of providing information to the cop next time he came in. He told me what to say, and I agreed. I couldn't see that it could do me any harm.

A couple days later, the cop came in, and I was ready with his coffee and fritter almost before he sat down. He looked at me, and asked, "Anything?" and I nodded and said, "Yeah, I overheard something. He's working for someone." I lowered my voice to barely a whisper, and mouthed the word, "Mafia." It was one of those words no one ever said, at least not loud enough to be caught on tape. The cop raised his eyes and met mine, and asked, "Who?" And I told him he worked for one of the biggest families, they owned ¾ of the cities, and were running rackets on nearly every street corner. The cop got what he was after, so he downed his coffee, left a big tip, and walked out. It was like the cop had found a gold mine. He was in every day after that and everyday I would have more information for him and he would drop a big tip and leave.

It wasn't until a couple weeks later that I understood what was happening. It wasn't until it was on the front page of every newspaper and the lead story on the nightly news. It wasn't just local either. The federal take down of the biggest mob operation in the city was national news. The whole thing was a set up. The guy in the corner, I would come to find out, worked for one of the smaller families and they were making a move without ever firing a shot. He came in the next morning after the story hit the papers, sat in the same place, and I brought him his coffee the same way. He nodded, and said that he had told my boss I would be taking a job at another luncheonette, in another part of town. The guy in the corner didn't say much else, except that he needed to move his base of operation, and that I would start tomorrow. He got up and handed me a slip of paper with an address on it as he made his way to the front of the luncheonette and out the door.

What else could I do, but follow him?

that was bad ass..why are girls so good at writing stories? haha thanks for the story astray

You're welcome.

Really good story astray. Hope to hear more from you.

I like the story..make some more

Good story