Light of the World (Dave Robicheaux 20)

“It’s out of the way, but we like it,” she said, refilling his coffee cup, her face filling with pleasure because the customer had complimented the place where she worked.

“It’s a family-type diner. That’s the best kind. I bet it’s American-owned,” he said.

“Yes, sir, it is.”

He gazed out the window, his eyes sleepy and warm with sentiment. “Salt of the earth,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“I was talking about those people out there. Mother and child. That’s the salt of the earth.”

“You talk like a preacher.”

“That’s because I am.”

“Which church?”

“The big one, the one that doesn’t have a name.”

She seemed to think a moment. “Meaning Jesus doesn’t belong to just one denomination?”

“That pretty much says it all. Watch yourself.”

“Sir?”

“You’re about to spill that hot coffee on your foot.”

“I know better than that.”

“I bet you do. I bet you know plenty.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“About the restaurant business and public relations. About the people who come in here. You’re a good judge of people, I bet.”

“I can tell the good ones from the bad ones.”

“Which am I?”

“You’re a preacher, aren’t you? That speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

“You better be careful. I might run off with you. If my daughter had grown up, I bet she’d be like you.”

“You lost your daughter?”

“It was a long time ago. You have a sweet face, just like she did.”

She blushed and was about to reply when another customer came through the front door and tapped on the counter for his order to go. “Excuse me,” she said. “I better get back to work.”

As she walked away, she did not see the change of expression in the face of the man who called himself the Reverend Geta Noonen. He set down his fork and looked at it with deliberation, then picked up his coffee and drank from it and stared at his reflection. By the time he set the cup back in the saucer, his expression was once again benign and ordinary, his attention focused on his meal, his eyes drifting back to the scene behind the motel, where the mother was pushing her daughter back and forth on the swing.

He put a two-dollar tip on the counter and waited until the waitress was in the vicinity of the cash register before he got up to pay his check.

“I forgot to ask if you wanted any pie,” she said. “We have peach cobbler that’s good. The cherry pie isn’t bad, either.”

“I never pass up cherry pie. What time do you close?”

“Ten. I usually don’t work this late. I’m filling in for somebody else. In the morning I have to come in early and open up. I don’t mind, though.”