White's late to the diner. The waitress is busting a large corner table of the remains of what look like a late breakfast for a party of six. "'Scuse me, miss?"

She's ten years too late for 'miss', but smiles all the same. "Yeah, hon? Seat's free over near the window."

"Yes, thank you, but I was just wondering if you'd seen a group of guys come in here, mighta been at this table actually, some of 'em dressed like me?"

"Like a funeral party? Yeah, I seen 'em."

There's a nonplussed silence. White clears his throat. "Did any of them stiff you on a tip?"

A nicotine laugh. "Naw, baby. Old guy grabbed my ass, though. Why, you lookin' for someone to beat up?"

White chuckles, following her to the new table. "Now why would you say that?"

"I mean, no offense here pal, but even if those guys were your crowd, you just look like someone - I dunno. Like you're gonna beat someone up. Coffee?"

"Coffee'd be divine. Maybe take away whatever's in my face what makes you think I'm about to do violence, hah?"

"Hah," Nodding, she departs to make her rounds. White watches after her, so by the time he's facing the small two-person table, another person has gone and sat down across from him.

"Joseph wanted me to wait around." Blonde twitches his jacket shut, adjusting to a comfortable perch on the edge of his seat. He peeks over the rim of his thick black sunglasses, concern tugging his eyebrows into place. "Didn't think it'd take you this long, though."

"How late am I? Hour? Half?"

Blonde shakes his head, sniffs. He pushes the sunglasses back up his nose with his thumb and forefinger in the mimic of a gun. "Try months, buckaroo."

White whistles low. "I've only been a week out of Cali."

Blonde shrugs, clasps his hands on the table. "It is what it is. The job went down even before that, so, I guess it don't matter."

"Then why are you here?" White shakes a packet of cigarettes against his palm, tapping one out. His lighter flickers to life with just one snap of the flint, which agitates him so he snuffs the flame and breaks the cigarette over a napkin.

"Well Pink has the diamonds, don't he?"

"From what I've been told, yeah."

"You got the car?"

"I might."

Blonde clicks his tongue against his teeth like he's tasted something bitter. "Mr. Black isn't going to appreciate a 'might'."

"Oh, you working for this Mr. Black clown now, too?"

"Naw - thank you darlin'," Blonde accepts his coffee with the same subdued grace as White, all P's and Q's and smiles, but goes right back to his deadpan drawl the minute the waitress is out of earshot. "I don't work for Black. Used to think I did, but..." He fingers the rim of the mug without drinking. "Nobody really works for the guy. Mr. Black has his job, and we -"

"We got ours. Thanks. Heard that already."

Blonde sucks at a tooth. Nods. He pulls the sunglasses off his nose, tucks them away in his jacket. Forces a polite smile. Closes his hands together under the table. "So where is he?"

White pulls his coffee away, extremely put upon that he's not allowed to just sit in peace and have a hot cup to himself. "Where's who?"

Blonde's grin sweetens. He wipes the table of imaginary crumbs, then sits back, reaches into his jacket as if to pull out a photo, or a gun. To White's surprise, though, he pulls open his shirt. Thumbs the buttons down to reveal ragged, bloodless holes in his torso. Great bruising down his chest and ribs, and little frothing bubbles peeking out with each new breath.

White leans back, glancing around the diner. Uncomfortable.

Blonde slams a hand on the table, gaining White's attention. "'Where's who'? Where's who - where's the little ratfuck cop that did this? Huh?"

"Put that away, people are tryin' ta eat."

"Aw, fuck 'em. And fuck you too; you need to face some reality here, Mr. White. Orange shot me."

"I'da shot you myself, the minute you started murdering bystanders -"

Blonde holds up a hand, tucking his shirt back around himself with a dry chuckle. "No, no. No. If you'd have done anything, then you'd have gone ahead and done it. But you didn't. So I know you wouldn't have. See?" He begins to button.

"No. What I see is a psychopath what finally got what he deserved."

"Psycopaaath," Blonde slouches back, flapping a hand at the air between them. "Semantics. What we need to focus on now is getting our loot back. Do you have the car, or don't you?"

"It might be outside."

"What? You mean you don't know?"

"I mean I didn't take it to get here. Obviously."

Blonde bites his cheek, glances sideways at White like maybe his cuckoo fell out of its nest.

"It'll be there when I finish my coffee, or it won't. Worse case scenario, we take the bus."

"Worse case scenario, you lost Mr. Black's car." Mumbles over the edge of his coffee, "And he plucks your eyeballs right outta your head to fry 'em up with hotsauce."