Artie Jones glanced at his watch nervously and then rotated halfway around on the bar stool to look out the big plate glass window of the all-night diner. The same diner he had first encountered the black-eyed killer in just a few days back. In front of him was a half-empty cup of coffee and a heavy glass ashtray. The old, scarred thing was half filled with the smoldering remains of almost a pack of cigarettes. He thought about lighting up another one after he turned back around to face the counter he was sitting at. But he decided another cup of coffee would be better. Glancing at the small Hispanic who was working tonight, he nodded his head toward the coffee pot and watched in silence as the guy poured black java into a startling white cup.
He got the call about two hours ago. Woke him
