Gary held the twenty up to the overhead light, tilted it left, tilted it right, rubbed his thumb across the face like he was checking for counterfeit ink. Maxwell watched him do it. Didn’t say a word.

“Where’d you get this?” “Excuse me?” “The bill.” Gary flicked it with his finger. “Where’d you get it?” “From a bank. Same place everybody gets them.”

Gary didn’t laugh. He turned to Denise without looking at her. “Get me the UV pen.” Denise froze. “Gary, it’s just a twenty.” “Did I ask for your opinion?” He snapped his fingers. “Pen, now.”

She opened a drawer and handed him a small black light pen. Gary uncapped it and dragged it across the bill in slow, deliberate strokes. The light passed clean. No smudge. No flag. The bill was real, and everyone within earshot already knew it.

Gary stared at the result for a long beat. Then he tucked the pen back into his shirt pocket and dropped the twenty on the counter like it smelled bad. “Can’t be too careful these days.”

He looked Maxwell up and down. The jacket, the boots, the ball cap.

“We’ve had problems before. Your type comes in, orders something small, then causes trouble.” “My type?” “You heard me.”

The couple at table four glanced over. The woman nudged her husband. He shook his head slightly. Don’t get involved, and went back to his salad. Maxwell kept his voice level. “I ordered coffee and pie. I paid with a clean bill. Can I get my change and my food, please?”

Gary leaned against the register, crossed his arms. “See, this is what I’m talking about. Attitude. You walk in here looking like…” He gestured at Maxwell’s clothes. “Like that, and then you want to get loud with me?”

“I haven’t raised my voice once.” “Not yet. But I know how this goes.”

The espresso machine hissed behind Denise. Steam curled into the air and disappeared. She stood motionless, hands flat on the counter, eyes locked on a spot between the two men like she was praying for the floor to open up.

Maxwell took a slow breath. “I’d like my change, and I’d like my order.” Gary smiled. Not a warm smile. The kind of smile a man gives when he knows he’s holding all the cards, or thinks he is.

He punched open the register, counted out the change with exaggerated slowness, then slid it across the counter. Maxwell looked down. The math was wrong. He’d handed over a twenty for an eight fifty order. He should have gotten eleven fifty back. There was a five and two ones on the counter. Seven dollars.