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the jukebox where my mom usually sits when she does the ordering, and another pang of guilt rips through my gut. With all the commotion in the diner, I almost forgot he was there. I lift the black tub in my hands and give him a look that says
Too busy to talk now.
Gene adjusts his chair and lifts his mug. I acknowledge him and continue my rounds.
    Then I happen to look outside. On the sidewalk, peering into the window of the diner, is a DEM officer, a clam cop. No, two of them!
Oh, crap!
    I dash back toward the kitchen, through the double doors, and place the tub down by the sink.
They figured it out. How did they know it was me last night?
My heart feels like it’s going to burst from my chest.
    I look through the order window, hiding between the slips hanging from the metal clip. One of the clam cops walks through the front door. His shoulders are so wide he almost has to step sideways. He looks to be almost my height, with a bald head, mustache, and a pinched, angry, red face. He’s like the strongman from the circus, only wearing a khaki-green uniform and a gun holster. His partner, a scrawny, nervous, blond-haired guy, stays outside, pacing in front of the window. A hush of silence spreads through the diner as the bald-headed man walks over to the TV, watches for a second, and then clicks it off.
    “Some storm last night,” he says aloud to everyone in the diner, still curiously staring at the blank screen with his hand on the switch of the TV. He’s close enough to me that I can almost read the numbers on his badge. Above the badge, embroidered on his shirt, is the name DELVECCHIO. I’m thinking I should run out the back door, but if he already knows where I live, it’s pointless to run. My knees are shaking so much I don’t think I could run anyway.
    “I know most of you in here are quahoggers.” Delvecchio is looking around the diner, enjoying the attention as his hand slips away from the TV and he turns to his audience of diggers. “And most of you do the right thing . . .” He pauses for effect. “But some of you have been drifting the line, working in polluted waters. And that’s just not nice. Some of you even have the nerve to work out there at night.
At night!
”
    “Oh, give me a break,” someone yells from the back.
    “Don’t worry,” Delvecchio continues. “I won’t be writing you any tickets anymore. No, my doctor said my tendonitis has been acting up, and writing all those tickets hasn’t been helping. I’ve got a new pen.” He pulls his gun from his holster and holds it up for everyone to see.
    “You can’t come in here and start threatening us with guns.”
    Delvecchio steps over to Charlie Crosby, sitting at the counter, and pats his back like an old friend. “I’m not threatening anybody, Charlie. I just want you to understand that there are some lines you don’t cross. It’s like the edge of this counter. One side, legal.” Delvecchio slaps his hand down on the Formica. “But once you cross over that edge . . . I gotta write you up.” He runs his hand over the edge and pats his gun for emphasis. “Say, is that an egg sandwich?”
    “Yeah,” Charlie says.
    “Bacon?”
    “Yeah.”
    Delvecchio lifts the bread, tosses the bacon to the side, and takes a huge bite. He continues to talk to Charlie between mouthfuls, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I heard you came in with twenty bags the other day. Twenty bags at eight thirty in the morning! You must get up pretty early in the morning, Charlie. How’s the coffee here?”
    “Good,” Charlie says, his head hung low, looking at the floor.
    Delvecchio takes a loud slurp from the coffee. He sets the mug down on the edge of the counter and lets it fall, spilling coffee onto Charlie’s lap and smashing on the floor.
    “Ow! What the hell?” Charlie jumps up, wiping the hot coffee off his pants.
    “Oh, I’m sorry.” Delvecchio sneers, throwing a few napkins at Charlie’s chest. “I guess I didn’t see where