THE BIG PICTURE, BY JOHN M. FLOYDScott Gibson sat at a table by the window in Barney’s Café, staring out at the street. Now and then he looked up at the still-dark trees in the park across the way, and when he did he could see, in the oversized window, the reflection of the clock above the counter to his right. Its backward face said 6:03. Too early in the day, for him. Meet me at Barney’s at six a.m., Tyler Mitchell’s phone message had said, on the answering machine last night. Scott didn’t like Barney’s, and never had; the waitresses were rude and the food was terrible. But the meeting-place seemed appropriate, since he also didn’t like Tyler Mitchell.
Scott picked up his menu and focused on it, wondering whether he should risk a fried egg, and when he looked up again Mitchell slid into
