“Want to skip coffee?”

Jose gave Frank an incredulous look. “Not with your turn to buy.”

Adair set the orders of hash browns in front of the two men. Steam rose, fragrant and seductive, heavy with oil and paprika. Frank reached down the counter and snagged a bottle of Tabasco. After dousing his potatoes, he passed the hot sauce to Jose.

Adair watched, then gave out his usual warning. “Stuff’ll rot your gut.”

Jose came back with his usual reply. “Hasn’t yet.”

Adair ran a rag over the already clean counter in front of them. “Word is, Skeeter Hodges got whacked tonight.”

Jose held up the Tabasco bottle. “Empty.”

Adair sighed, reached under the counter, and came up with another bottle. He held it just out of Jose’s reach. “And Pencil Crawfurd caught a few,” he added. He looked at Jose, then Frank.

Frank raised his empty mug for a refill, pointedly saying nothing.

Adair took the hint and gave up on the fishing. Sighing again, he handed Jose the Tabasco and collected both mugs. “Whoever zapped those shits,” he said, returning with the refills, “did us all a favor.”

“Isn’t hunting season for humans yet in the District,” Jose said.

“Too bad,” Adair replied over his shoulder as he walked away, down the length of the counter.

Jose and Frank picked at their hash browns. More out of needing something to do than being hungry. Leaving their plates half full, they drank their coffee without talking. Adair had gone to a booth at the back, where he sat working on the books.

Just the three of them in the place.

Night traffic sounds from outside joined with the gurgling of hot water in the coffee urns.

Jose looked around. “Lonesome is an empty diner at night.” He took another sip of his coffee.

“Skeeter was what… thirty-four, -five?”

“Six. Thirty-six.”

“Old to be living at home.”