And she needed his tip.
The Man Called Rooster
Rebecca carried the plate to his booth.
Steak.
Eggs.
Hash browns.
Toast.
Everything cooked hard and almost burnt, exactly as he had requested.
“Fourteen fifty,” she said.
The biker looked at her name tag.
“Sandy?”
Rebecca glanced down.
“No. Rebecca. Sam never changed the tag.”
A corner of his mouth moved.
“Bad owner.”
She almost smiled.
“Not the worst.”
He studied her for a moment.
Then his eyes moved toward the back booth.
“Kid yours?”
“My brother.”
“He sick?”
Rebecca stiffened.
“Asleep.”
“That ain't what I asked.”
She turned away.
“Your food's getting cold.”
The biker didn't push.
He simply drank his coffee.
His name, she would later learn, was David Henderson.
Everyone called him Rooster.
He had spent decades riding California highways.
He was feared by some people, respected by others, and trusted by very few.
But at that moment, he was simply a tired man eating burnt steak at two in the morning.
Rebecca noticed a photograph beside his coffee.
It showed a much younger Rooster holding a tiny baby wrapped in a pink blanket.
The difference between the man in the photograph and the man sitting before her was startling.
He had fewer lines.
Darker hair.
But the same eyes.
For a moment, his thumb brushed the photograph.
Something vulnerable appeared in his face.
Then it disappeared.
Rebecca set down the bill.
Rooster placed a fifty-dollar bill on top.
“Keep it.”
She stared at it.
“Sir, that's too much.”
“Keep it.”
“I can't take thirty-five dollars.”
He nodded toward Leo.
“Buy the little man a proper blanket.”
Rebecca looked at the money.
Thirty-five dollars could buy groceries.
It could buy bus fare.
It could help pay for Leo's medication.
Her pride fought her desperation.
Desperation won.
“Thank you.”
Rooster picked up his fork.
“Don't make a sermon out of it.”
Rebecca returned to the counter.
For the first time all week, she felt something dangerously close to relief.
She didn't know it yet, but that fifty-dollar bill would be the first thread in a chain of events that would change everything.
The Thieves
The quiet after 2:30 a.m. was fragile.
Rebecca was loading dishes when she heard brakes screaming outside.
She looked through the kitchen window.
A rusted Ford pickup had pulled into the parking lot.
Two men climbed out.
One was thin, shaved-headed, with a tattoo running up his neck.
The other wore a dirty beanie and carried yellow bolt cutters.
Rebecca's stomach dropped.
They walked straight toward Rooster's motorcycle.
The shaved-headed man pulled a wooden plank from the truck.
The other crouched beside the Knucklehead.
Rebecca stared.
They were stealing it.
She should have found Rooster.
But the corner booth was empty.
His helmet sat on the table.
The thieves were already working on the lock.
Rebecca thought about her job.
Her apartment.
Leo.
She thought about what would happen if the diner became a crime scene.
Then she thought about people taking things.
Her mother taking the emergency cash.
The landlord taking their home.
The pharmacy taking hundreds of dollars for medicine.
Life taking her childhood.
She was tired of people taking.
She grabbed the iron tire bar beside the back door.
Then she walked outside.
“Hey!”
Both thieves turned.
Rebecca stepped between them and the motorcycle.
“Get away from that bike.”
The men stared.
Then they laughed.
The shaved-headed man shook his head.
“Back inside, sweetheart.”
“No.”
“This isn't your business.”
“You touch that bike, you're going to regret it.”
The second thief laughed.
“You serious?”
Rebecca tightened her grip.
“He's inside.”
“Then go get him.”