“How are them pancakes?” I asked, suddenly flustered and uneasy, but masking it well. Underneath the table, my palms were dripping tiny icicles onto my thighs.

“Eh,” he said with distaste, “they’re dry.”

“I didn’t realize pancakes were supposed to be soggy.” I said, reaching into my back jeans pocket for my wallet. I opened it up and took out twelve Fifties.

“They ain’t supposed to be soggy,” he said. “But they ain’t supposed to be this dry, neither.” He reached his giant, discolored claw across the table and took the folded green bills from my hand.

“But that’s why they call them ‘pan-cakes’,” I said. “Because they’re dry like cake. What, you don’t like syrup, or something?”

“Syrup,” he said, “ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. Call the waitress over here.”

“Just eat the fuckin pancakes,” I said. “Don’t make a scene.”

“I ain’t gonna make a goddamn scene.” He said, agitated. “I just want my pancakes replaced. The waitress is supposed to do that for me in this situation. This ain’t rocket freaking science, Jackson.”

“Let me try ‘em, see how dry they are.” I said. I reached over to his plate with my fork and he slapped my hand away.

“Get off my goddamned pancakes!” He said. “They’re shit, but they’re still mine.”

The waitress appeared, smelling strongly of gardenia and whiskey and chomping on a large wad of gum behind a tentative smile.

“How is everything here?” She asked. She started to walk away before Tommy or I could answer.

“Can I get these pancakes replaced, Miss?” Tommy the Pyro asked, looking down at his plate.

“Sure,” the waitress said. “What’s wrong with them?” I hadn’t noticed before, but her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was slightly tangled. Relics of restless sleep were pasted to her bruised eyelids and powdered cheeks.

“They’re dry, ma’am.” Tommy said. The waitress looked down at Tommy and momentarily stopped chewing her gum.

“You not a syrup or butter man?” She asked him, looking back and forth between Tommy and me and placing her free hand on her hip in frustration. “’Cause we got plenty of both.”

“I just want some new pancakes, sugar.” Tommy said, impatiently, exhausted. “Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” the waitress said bitterly. “I’ll get you some new pancakes.” She picked up his plate and walked away, muttering under her breath as Eric Clapton replaced Elvis Presley with a song about a sheriff being shot.

Tommy the Pyro’s hard gray eyes poked at me through the thin slits of his eyelids. His face stretched into a slight, wry smile as he drained the contents of his coffee cup. I looked out the window to the midnight sky, casually glancing down at the parking lot and a parked black Olds with two of my friends sitting inside.

“When do we make the exchange?” I asked. Tommy shifted his weight in his seat and reached underneath himself for his wallet. He pulled out a white business card and handed it to me. The card had nothing on it but a long distance phone number with a Las Vegas area code written in sloppy handwriting.

“Call that number Friday night at ten sharp, your time,” he said, and shifted his weight to put the wallet back underneath him. “We’ll go from there.” I took the police issue .38 out of my plaid jacket pocket with grace and held it on Tommy underneath the table without him seeing. I reached into my other pocket and pulled out my shield, placing it face up on the table.

“Now’s when I tell you to you place both hands on the table, palms down, Tommy.” I said, expressionless, pulling the gun into view over the table. Tommy the Pyro looked from my gun to my badge, then to my eyes, an expression of irony, regret, shame, and rage smeared all over his scarred, wrinkiling face. He complied after what seemed like a week and I stood up, moving over to chain my cuffs on his thick wrists. My gun was trained steadily at his solar plexus as my backup stormed into the diner behind me.

“Funny,” he said, looking up at me with a wry smile as I began to search him for weapons, “I didn’t figure you for a pig.”