*MAN IN THE BLACK JACKET
With the arrogant air you might ascribe to someone who actually owned the place, the man strode right up to where I sat and grabbed the other chair at my table.
Of all the tables in this god-forsaken café, why does he choose this one?
Arching an eyebrow by way of explanation, he lifted the chair using his thick fingers like pincers, dangling it in the air. He swung it back and forth before letting it drop.
The legs clattered hard against the marble floor.
Clack, clack. Cu-lunk, clink.
After removing his leather jacket and draping it over the back of the rearranged chair, he settled into the seat. He was facing me, riding it backwards like a horse.
We were face to face now, close enough for his cologne to be my cologne, close enough for the uneven stubble on his scarred cheeks to remind me I probably needed a shave, too. And, like the fat guy before him, he was blocking my only exit.
My thoughts raced back to that threatening phone call. Was this the man? My anonymous …