Weird thing about writing. Even with an outline, the story just kind of does whatever it wants...
The day Kohler came in with his pitch, instead of a booth, he sat at the counter. Instead of noon, he came in at the slow time, between lunch and dinner.
All he ever ordered was coffee. His face craggy, his voice matching the face, it seemed off he didn't take the coffee black. But he always wanted sugar and cream.
When she asked him if he wanted a refill, Kohler looked her in the face.
"When this place closes, what are you going to do?"
"No," said Kohler. "You know what I mean. It's got what--a month left?"
"Haven't thought that far ahead."
"Sure you have."
There was one old fart rattling a newspaper in a corner booth, and Jeff had NPR on back in the kitchen. The way Kohler looked at her was a little intense like one more errant newspaper rattle or one more NPR story with a music bed and Kohler would start the killing.
"You in good health?"
"Like what? My girl parts?"
"Legs. Arms. Brain."
"How do you feel about making some money? A one-time thing. Kind of scary. But if it goes sideways, you have an out."
She smiled and laughed.
Kohler waited for her to shake off the uniqueness of the line of inquiry. She knew he knew he'd piqued her interest. She had to at least finger the pie just out and steaming on the counter. Finger it if not eat it.
What did it was when he got into particulars regarding the money.
Enough to fuel a rocket and blast off into orbit, her and Harvey, far, far away from Buttfuck, Egypt.