Tessic grinned. “Is that the price of your recipe?”
“I suppose we could swap national secrets, huh?”
“Secrets are secrets, eh? The government can buy my silence, but they can’t buy your recipe. I, on the other hand, would like to do just that.” He reached into the pocket of his overcoat, and produced a checkbook. Bobby waved it away.
“Hell, no! I was gonna give it to you anyway. You don’t have to pay me.”
“I insist.” Tessic scribbled in the checkbook. “You can put it toward your granddaughter’s tuition.” He folded the check and slipped it into Bobby’s apron pocket.
“Aw hell. Well, then that piece you just had is on the house.” He took a napkin, writing down the recipe from memory. “It don’t take a brain surgeon to make.” When he finished he handed it to Tessic. “You ain’t gonna sell it to Sara Lee, now, are you?”
“I give you my word.”
Tessic stood, straightening his overcoat.
“I suppose you won’t need to come here anymore, now that you got the recipe.”
“And miss your company?” Tessic pulled open the door. “Rest assured, you’ll see me again.”
Tessic left and drove off in his silver Jag. At the diner, Bobby cleaned up Tessic’s plate and then almost as an afterthought slipped the check from his pocket, suspecting that Tessic had given him a digit or two more than the recipe commanded. But the number that stared back at him was so laden with zeros it almost seemed to gain weight in his hand. It was enough to send all his grandchildren to Princeton. His wind stolen from him, he sucked a deep breath, and leaned on the counter to steady himself.
“Hey, Pops,” called one of the truckers at the far booth, “you gonna fill up this coffee or what?”
“Yeah, yeah, be right there.” He looked at Tessic’s check again, blinking as if the number might disappear. The man’s crazy! he thought. I can’t accept this.