"Odessa," he called. "You looking after my town today?"
"Afternoon, Sergeant."
"Then you know why I'm here. Don't make a working man ask twice."
She set down the plate. Elias watched her fingers move beneath the register tray and retrieve a thick white envelope from a place that had clearly been used before. There was no argument, no exchange of paperwork, no explanation of a lawful fee. She held it across the counter as though handing over something that might burn her.
Knox took the envelope and weighed it in his palm. "That's better. People who appreciate protection are the people who get it."
"It's more than last month," Odessa said. "You told me the amount wouldn't rise again."
Knox leaned close enough that Nolan stopped working at the grill. "Costs go up, Mrs. Plumley. You wouldn't want a surprise visit from the health office, now, would you?" He smiled again, looked around to see who might be listening, and tore open the envelope. His indifference was so complete that he did not bother to hide the cash from the lunch crowd.
The top bill was one of Marcus's twenties, crisp enough for the serial numbers to remain clear. Knox peeled it from the stack and tucked it beneath an engraved gold money clip attached inside his jacket. He turned it outward while laughing about lunch being on the house. Two men at the counter lowered their eyes, and Odessa's expression became so fixed that Elias worried she might faint.
Marcus whispered the serial number, not because Elias needed to hear it again, but because saying it made the observation real. Their recorder was running; the exchange was visible to Nolan and the surrounding customers; the money had moved from a documented purchase into an unreceipted envelope and then into a police officer's possession. This was the evidence they had come for. Elias should have felt relief, yet his stomach remained tight.
Knox moved away from the register. His gaze traveled across the room and stopped on the two Black men occupying the back booth. The warmth drained from his face, replaced by an expression Elias had seen before in men who believed a town belonged to them and everyone else was merely visiting. He walked toward the booth with his thumbs hooked into his duty belt and the envelope pressing visibly against his jacket.
"Well, look what the wind dragged in," Knox said. "You boys lost?"
"Just eating lunch," Marcus answered. "Food's good. Folks have been kind."
"Folks are kind when the company deserves it." Knox looked toward Odessa, who had become very still behind the counter. "I know every face worth knowing around here. Don't recognize either of yours."
"That doesn't make us criminals," Elias said.
"Who said anything about criminals?" Knox replied. "But since you brought it up, I'd like to know what you're doing in a booth meant for decent local customers."
Elias lifted his eyes and held the sergeant's gaze. "We paid for lunch, Sergeant. We have a receipt if that's what you're asking."
Knox tapped the table and smiled without warmth. "There's paying, and there's belonging. Men like you cause problems just by walking into places where people don't expect to see you. You understand what I'm telling you?"
Several customers heard the racial contempt in his voice even before he made it explicit. They also heard the satisfaction with which he said it, as if humiliating two strangers were another benefit of the office he held. Dale stared at his plate, remembering the day Knox had stopped him on Route 9 and taken eleven hundred dollars intended for his daughter's education. He wanted to stand, but the memory of that earlier threat held him to his stool.