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with a picture of the latest Normal Hills varsity football team left of the cash register, and a framed Normal Hills chamber of Commerce certificate on the right.   Three men sat at the counter eating their breakfast solemnly.    A few more sat at round oak tables scattered around the country-style dining area.   They watched Gordon as he made his way to the table in the farthest, darkest corner.   Gordon didn’t like being watched.   He took a seat with his back to the wall and waited.   The others quickly rediscovered their breakfasts, and he breathed a little easier with their eyes turned away from him.   Charles Davis, his roving PI, wasn’t there yet, but Gordon didn’t worry.   Charles said to meet him at ten-thirty, and it was just past ten.   He would be there at ten-thirty on the nose.   Gordon unfolded the menu and browsed while he waited.
    A squat, balding man shuffled past his table carrying plates heaped with eggs, toast, bacon, and hash browns.
    â€œRight with you,” he said.   His voice had the rough edge of a life-long smoker.   He set the plates before two men sitting at a table near the door and returned to Gordon at a leisurely pace.
    â€œ G’morning ,” he said, looking at his note pad instead of Gordon.   “What’ll you have?”
    â€œI’ll take one of what they have,” Gordon said, gesturing to the men by the door.   His stomach ached now, as if some dormant beast inside him had awakened.   “And a black coffee, please.”
    As the waiter turned to walk away Gordon remembered Charles, who would join him shortly.   “Better make that two of each,” he said.
    The waiter nodded, wrote in his pad again, and disappeared into the kitchen.
    Charles showed up, as if on cue, just as the food arrived.   Big, well dressed, and black, Charles stood out in this den of good old boys.   Eyes followed him as he strode to Gordon’s table.
    â€œGood morning, old friend,” he said, seating himself across from Gordon.   His voice was as big as the rest of him.   He leaned across the table, the wooden chair creaking under his weight, and snatched one of the plates.   He salted the eggs heavily and dug in.
    Gordon couldn’t help but smile. He had only known Charles for three years but considered the driven, often dangerous private investigator a friend.   Gordon wasn’t an easy man to befriend and he knew it, but Charles had an earnestness about him that he had to respect, and an almost unreasonable optimism that was contagious.   That, Gordon supposed, was the reason Charles was willing to keep working this case.   He wasn’t milking it, Gordon knew he’d been turning down easier jobs, probably better-paying ones too.   He believed against all common sense that they could still catch the bastard, and maybe even save his daughter if she was still alive.
    That, if nothing else, made Charles the best friend he’d ever had.
    â€œDid you ever stop to consider that maybe those weren’t for you?” Gordon asked, and sipped experimentally at the scalding coffee.   He spooned a few ice cubes from his water cup into the coffee and waited for them to melt.
    â€œWho else then?” Charles asked and shoveled another spoonful of eggs into his mouth.   He chewed quickly, swallowed, and added, “You have a girlfriend here I don’t know about?”
    â€œNo,” Gordon confessed.   “Maybe I’m just really hungry.”   He sipped the coffee again, found it more accommodating, and drank.   The coffee was good, fresh.
    â€œEven so,” Charles countered, “you’d starve yourself before you let a friend go without a meal.”   He emptied his coffee in three gulps and started on the hash browns.
    In minutes Charles had cleaned his plate.   He briefed Gordon while the smaller man finished his breakfast at a