9

            A gigantic drive-in that had been a city landmark for decades, The Varsity was located on North Avenue, across the way from Georgia Tech and in the shadow of Atlanta’s skyscrapers.  Their distinctive red neon sign, a giant “V,” blazed in the summer night, summoning drivers roaring along nearby Interstate 75/85, the Downtown Connector.

            Anthony parked on the top level of the two-tiered parking deck.  As Bob had likely counted on, the restaurant was jumping with customers who pulled up to the drive-in bays, and others who headed inside the building to grab their Friday night grub.  For one worried about being conspicuous, there was anonymity in numbers.

            A platoon of security guards patrolled the parking lot, maintaining order and ensuring that no vehicles remained parked beyond the allotted one-hour limit.  Exceed an hour, the posted signs warned, and you would return to find a boot attached to your wheel.

            He read his watch.  A quarter to ten.  He waited behind the wheel, drawing deep breaths, as if he could exhale away the heavy emotions that weighed on his heart. 

            His dad had used to bring him, Danielle, and Mom to The Varsity after they attended football and basketball games at Georgia Tech, his dad’s alma mater.  Eating chili dogs, burgers, and fries amid the raucous crowd, talking to each other about whatever game they had just watched, people-watching, laughing and joking among themselves . . . those were some of his most vivid, cherished memories of his family before the walls had caved in on their lives.

            He hadn’t visited the restaurant in fifteen years, but would feel a stab of anguish every time he drove past, a knife twisting in an open wound.  Consequently, he tried to avoid driving past.

            He should have suggested that they meet somewhere else.  He didn’t feel as if he had a good hold on himself there.  He felt, literally, tears hanging behind his eyes, ready to spill out.    

Toughen up.  You can do this.

            To refocus, he did a quick inventory of his gear.

            Although the night was warm, he wore a light windbreaker.  He’d slipped a miniature digital voice recorder inside the breast pocket, a device he used when conducting interviews with experts for book research.  He checked it to make sure it was functional, and decided to leave it in Record mode from that moment forward.     

            Underneath his jacket, he also had the Beretta in his waistband holster.  He double-checked that it was loaded.  It might be a violation of the concealed-carry law for him to take the gun inside this place, but that was a risk he was willing to take.

            Blowing out a final, lung-clearing breath, he got out of the truck and walked to the stairs that descended to the ground level of the parking lot.  The air was dense with aromas: hot dogs, hamburgers, grilled onions, fries.  Music throbbed from cars, and laughter and conversation was everywhere, Atlantans out on a beautiful June night.

            As he walked, he scanned back and forth.  No one took special note of him.  He was just another guy dropping in for chow.

            Bob had not told him whether to wait outside, or to go in.  He hung outside the entrance until his watch struck ten.  After looking around again and seeing no one out of the ordinary, he went inside.

            The huge lobby was packed, over a dozen queues of customers streaming to the long, gleaming counter.  He waited in an area that featured glass-fronted cases of Varsity memorabilia, trinkets for the tourists who’d made the drive-in one of their Atlanta must-sees.  When no one approached him after a couple of minutes, he moved to stand in line, thinking he might buy a Coke, to pass the time.

            Someone bumped him from behind. 

            He started to spin around, but a hand gripped his bicep and a man’s voice whispered close to his ear:

            “It’s Bob—don’t turn around.  Buy something to eat and go to the counter with a view of the parking lot.  I’ll be the one reading the Bible.”

            Bob released him, and sidled away.  Anthony watched him in his peripheral vision: Bob was about six-two, lean, with gray hair.  He wore a blue jacket, wrinkled white-washed jeans, and loafers, no socks. 

            From the rear, he looked like an absent-minded college professor, not an oily scam artist or a demented, doomsday conspiracy theorist.

            Anthony hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, and his stomach was clenched so tight it had killed his appetite.  Nevertheless, he ordered a chili dog, fries, and a Coke, the same meal he’d get during visits with his family.

            Carrying his meal on a plastic tray, he wandered into the crowded dining area.  Bob was huddled at the long counter near the window.  He sipped a cola and held a small Bible in one hand, idly turning pages. 

            With his ruddy, weathered complexion and thinning gray hair, he might have been in his late-fifties or early sixties.  He wore black, horn-rimmed glasses, and a pocket protector bristling with pens was clipped to his white, button-down shirt.  If he weren’t a rumpled college professor, he certainly affected the appearance of one.                   

            Anthony made a show of looking around, as if searching for a seat, and casually moved to the counter, leaving a few feet between himself and the stranger.  There were only a handful of other diners at the counter, and they were several feet away, engaged in their own conversations.

            Without turning to look at Anthony, keeping his gaze on the window, Bob spoke.  He had a faint Georgia accent probably leavened by spending time outside the South, much like Anthony had lost his accent when he went abroad with the Marines.

            “Thanks for coming, Anthony, but we don’t have much time.  I think they’ve followed me here—and if they have, your life is now in danger, too.”