I'm parked at the breakfast bar the run-down diner that is Johnny's, waiting for one waiter, in particular, to come and serve me. Lexington didn't like the idea of me coming here, especially alone. So we compromised and he came. At least he agreed to stay in the car. I thought that given the rapport that I've grown with Nixon over the last few times I've run into him, I would have a better chance of getting information from him if I were alone.
He's just come through the swinging door that leads to the kitchen with two hot plates held aloft on a tray, catching my eyes immediately with his own. The brief look of surprise morphs into something more friendly. Warm, even.
