The jukebox in Murphy’s Diner rattled the windows with Chuck Berry, the bassline buzzing through the cracked leather booths. Cigarette smoke curled lazy halos in the air, mixing with the scent of frying onions and burnt coffee.

Johnny “Ace” Romano leaned back against the corner booth, one arm stretched across the vinyl like he owned the place. His leather jacket creaked as he shifted, a toothpick balanced between his teeth. He wasn’t saying much, he never did, just watching, the smirk on his face enough to keep half the room guessing what he was thinking.

A couple of local boys were arguing over who had the faster car, voices loud and full of bravado. Johnny just listened, tapping the table in rhythm with the jukebox, knowing he could smoke either of them on the strip if he felt like it. He didn’t need to brag, his Mercury coupe outside, black and polished under the streetlamp, did the talking for him.

A waitress slid a cup of black coffee in front of him. “On the house, Ace.” He gave her a nod — respectful, like always, and lifted it to his lips. Around town, he had a reputation: wild but not rotten, untamable but not unkind. Parents warned their daughters, but every one of those same daughters snuck glances at him when they thought no one was looking.

Tonight was no different. Johnny sat in the glow of neon, restless, his eyes fixed on the door. He wasn’t waiting for anyone in particular, at least, that’s what he told himself.