In Dreams, Part 1- Grace

I pushed open the glass and chrome door, the same as I had done countless times before. And as always, above me the large sign buzzed quietly and spelled out in blue neon Grace's Last Chance Diner, the same as it had since I had moved to the city, and found here the best coffee in town. And the food was great, too. Inside, the diner looked like an art-deco version of the 1950's- all long lines of chrome and Formica. A long counter stretched the length of the room, with red vinyl stools at regular intervals along its length. Behind the counter two polished steel coffee machines reflected the room back blankly, catching the light and colors from the surrounding area. Colored neon chased itself along the back wall, between the coffee machines, a milkshake machine looking like some War of The Worlds invader in miniature, and a glass-fronted refrigerator sitting on the rear counter, containing jugs of half-and-half, ice water and juice. A black swinging door, complete with a round porthole window, led into the back, the domain of the cook. I heard the faint sound of zydeco music and the loud voice of the cook discussing something with one of the busboys. I had met Henri the cook on a couple occasions, and knew loud was his natural volume. I inhaled a deep breath redolent of coffee and fried food when the woman at the end of the counter glanced up from her newspaper, smiled and reached behind her without looking to take two coffee cups off of a nearby stack and plunk them down on the counter, pausing for a moment to finish whatever she was reading before moving down the counter to fill them at the machine, earning her a couple appreciative glances from the customer. Grace, she of the coffee cups, was the owner and sometimes- waitress, and ruled over the counter with an air of royalty. I sat down nearby and craned my neck to see what she was reading, setting my black fedora on the stool beside me. Grace looked up with her remarkable green eyes and frowned.
"First off, why do you never use the coat rack for that ridiculous thing? And second, why do you insist on dressing like a private eye?"
I grinned at her. "Because I am a private eye. And second, it's not ridiculous".
"It's 1978. Or did you miss the last 20 years?"
The whole exchange had the feel of exactly what it was- two old friends with no secrets, and a long history of shoulders both offered and cried on, and having seen it all before. Grace, at just under six feet tall, looked for all the world like a redheaded version of Julie Newmar, and as Irish as they come. Her bright orange-red hair, which frizzed out when it was down, forming a nimbus around her narrow face, was tucked away under a hair net, which in turn was tucked away under a Dragons ball cap, which she wore in fond remembrance of her deceased husband, who picked it up on one of his frequent business trips. Her long legs were clad in a pair of gray jeans, and her upper half was wearing a red apron and black t-shirt. She looked beautiful, but such thoughts were not for married men like me.
As if reading my thoughts, she asked, "How's the wife doing? Still plugging away at the mysteries of engineering the state?"
"She's doing okay, keeps the trains running on time", I answered. My dear wife, a good deal shorter than Grace, thought the world of the independent and smart widow, who had turned the diner into a profitable success. My wife, for her part, worked for the Transportation Commission as a structural engineer for the city's complex and massive transit system. With a PhD in engineering and a master's certification in welding, she was a formidable intellect. We had moved to the city primarily for her, and the job opportunities the growing demand for public transportation provided. For my part, just shy of 40, perhaps not as young as I used to be (but I still worked out like I was 20, thank you very much) with a top-secret clearance and years of intelligence work, had found myself at rather loose ends, so I set up shop doing what I knew how to do-find out things that were not generally available to the public. I had worked my share of humdrum cheating-spouse cases, with a few missing person and criminal cases thrown in. All in all, it was a good if somewhat unpredictable life, and running background checks and tracking down parole jumpers meant we lived a pretty comfortable life. There were, of course, what I had mentally come to call the "Black Files", those cases involving more sinister and dangerous elements that had taken me to all corners of the state, into a couple situations I'd rather forget, and on a few rare occasions, in fear for my life. Grace's voice brought me back to the present.
"Sounds like business as usual. It's been kind of quiet here," she said, gesturing around at the handful of customers at the counter and at the booths on the opposite wall, and the waiter, young looking, with a dark complexion and the looks of some old movie star- perhaps, as Grace liked to point out, from my own 1950's. I didn't consciously dress like some film noir character, but did make a habit of wearing a shirt and tie to work, or out on a job. Never hurts to look professional, and besides, a jacket can be tailored to cover a shoulder holster, which I also made a habit of wearing.
Grace sighed. "I guess the weekend will pick up, must be the middle of the week slump".
"It always does," I said encouragingly. And it was true- the place was a favorite hangout of college students, artsy-beatnik types, and blue-collar working class guys who regularly endangered their cholesterol and arteries with Henri's masterfully grilled fare.
"Anyway," she said, raising one eyebrow and looking intelligent and beautiful without a trace of self-consciousness, "What's new?"
This too was part of the routine. Grace, like my wife, loved to hear the juicy details of my more interesting cases. Though of course I couldn't endanger confidentiality, most of the cases I worked on never made the papers, so I could usually provide some interesting stories. Today was no exception. "A man came into my office today, set me onto an interesting one."
"Sure he wasn't just looking for the bathroom?"
"Ha ha. Very amusing. Actually, it's in regards to a missing person. His daughter- he thinks she got swept up into one of those weird resurrectionist cults that you probably read about in those yellow-journalism newspapers you're so fond of."
Her eyes widened. "Actually, yes, I have heard of them. Is any of that stuff true?"
"I doubt it. You know how it usually goes- contrived miracles for the masses, that kind of thing. But still, if this guy's daughter is there, I'll do what I can to help. There's really getting to be kind of a gray area between brainwashing and joining of your own free will."
The sound of the door opening behind us interrupted, and Grace broke into a wide smile. "Look who it is!" she said, and I turned. Tabatha, my dear wife was heading over to us, having changed out of the coveralls she wore to work every day and having put on an equally fetching pair of jeans and a black shirt that brought out the deep blue of her eyes. She walked over to us, leaned over me and gave me a proprietary smooch, and sat down, tossing my hat onto my lap. "What's doing?" she said, accepting a cup of coffee from Grace. Though Tabatha pretended a jealous streak where our friendship was concerned, I knew that both of them knew my heart was only in one place, as the stainless steel ring on my left hand attested to.
"Well, your husband here was striving to live in the current decade, and failing miserably. Apart from that, not too much. How's it going with you, hon?"
Tabatha rolled her lovely eyes dramatically. "Well, you know, upholding the cause of the common man, working for peanuts, slaving away at a labor of love," she said. I knew she was kidding, though she pulled it off without a hitch. She loved her work, and was the best in her field at it.

Well, that's about all I've got for now, dear readers. Grace is a complete work of fiction, the diner is a fictionalized account of a real place, and I actually am married to a very attractive blue-eyed woman named Tabatha. And my wedding ring actually is stainless steel. But hey, what's life without the daydreams? I'll see what else I can come up with for this fictional self- I'm not a private eye, and I work in transportation, not intelligence. I'll try and keep up the thread of this story, as I can describe the scene, but coming up with a plot is hard. Hope you enjoyed this first somewhat scattershot effort, and stay well, as always!