“Yeah, Chuck.” Ben shook his head. “Friggin’ hilarious.”

“Gimme a break, it’s early. So, can I get youse guys anything?”

“Just coffee,” my friend told him.

“Make that two,” I said.

Felicity added, “Three.”

Chuck reached under the Formica-sheathed counter, and when he withdrew his large hand, a trio of ceramic coffee mugs were hooked on a single index finger. He set them down, then in a swift motion snatched up a full Pyrex globe of java and filled them all with a single practiced pour.

Ben slid partially out of the booth and in a pivoting motion ferried the steaming mugs to our table.

“Youse gonna be here for a bit?” Chuck asked.

“A while, probl’y,” Ben returned. “Why?”

The large man behind the counter hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “I gotta go in the back and check in a delivery. Wendy oughta be here in a bit. You wanna yell back there if someone comes in before she gets here?”

“We can do that.”

“I ‘preciate it.” Chuck nodded as he turned, then called back over his shoulder before disappearing into the back of the diner, “If youse want any more coffee, help yerselfs.”

A quiet lull ensued, broken randomly by the noise of Chuck shifting boxes in the back room and Felicity stripping open packets of sugar. The static-plagued tune of the Talking Heads “Psycho Killer” fell in behind the duet as it wafted from the speaker of a tinny radio behind the counter.

Considering what was happening a few blocks away, I suppose the song was appropriate.

“Can you tell me what’s going on now, Ben?” I finally appealed.

“There ain’t no other way to say this. You’ve been banned from any investigations involving the Major Case Squad.”

I blinked. I waited for him to tell me he was kidding. He didn’t, so I spoke. “Excuse me? Banned? Why?”