“You heard me.” Gary pointed at the floor. “Pick it up.” Maxwell looked down at the coins. He could see his own reflection in the polished tile, distorted, stretched, cut in half by a crack in the grout.

He looked at the coins. He looked at Gary’s shoes, polished loafers, pointed toe, tapping impatiently on the hardwood.

He didn’t kneel. He didn’t raise his voice. He looked up at Gary and said, “Who’s your regional director?” Gary laughed. Actually laughed. Head back, chest shaking.

“Oh, that’s rich. You’re going to call corporate on me?” He spread his arms wide. “Go ahead, call whoever you want. I’ve been here six years, pal. You think anyone’s going to take your word over mine?”

“I didn’t ask if they’d believe me. I asked for a name.” Gary waved his hand. “Patricia Davis, regional director. Knock yourself out.”

Maxwell pulled out his phone, unlocked it, tapped three times, held it to his ear.

The whole room was watching. The diners, Denise, Marshall, Gary, even the kitchen staff had drifted toward the window in the swinging door, peering through the glass. The call connected. Maxwell spoke six words. Quiet. Even. Like he was ordering coffee.

“Patricia. It’s Maxwell, Magnolia Grill. Now.” He hung up. Gary snorted. “First name basis with the regional director? Sure, buddy.” He turned to Marshall and jerked his thumb at Maxwell. “Get him out of here. I’m done playing.”

Marshall didn’t move. “Marshall, I said get him out.” “Gary,” Marshall’s voice was low. “Maybe we should just wait.”

Wait for what? Marshall didn’t answer. He’d heard the tone of that phone call. Six words, no explanation, no begging. That wasn’t the voice of a man filing a complaint. That was the voice of a man giving an order.

Gary didn’t hear it. Or maybe he did and his pride wouldn’t let him care. He turned back to Maxwell. “You’ve got thirty seconds to walk out that door or I’m calling the real police. Not your fake corporate fairy godmother, the real police.”

Maxwell put his phone back in his pocket, picked up his wallet, picked up his keys, left the folded paper on the counter, then he pulled out a chair and sat down. “I’ll wait,” he said.

Gary’s face went red. His fists tightened at his sides.

He opened his mouth to say something. And headlights swept across the front windows. A black SUV pulled into the parking lot. Fast. The engine cut. A door slammed. Heels clicked on pavement quick and sharp, getting louder.

The front door swung open. Patricia Davis came through the door like a woman whose house was on fire. She was mid-fifties, sharp gray blazer, reading glasses pushed up on her head. Her heels hit the hardwood fast. Click, click, click.