The Tri-Cities of Hanover, Tweed, and Spiner weren’t always connected. Once upon a time, long before Floyd or Janice could recall, all four cities were independent. Yes, there were once four cities, all connected via the one road separating them, spanning roughly fifteen miles north, south, east, and west. Folks in this part of Iowa referred to them as the corners, representing the four corners of a compass. Developers looked at the map and realized that the small town of Spud (yes, they actually named the town after the one crop that wouldn’t grow in the township, Spud) was close enough to the infringing and growing city of Spiner to annex it, making Spiner grow to almost 2,720 people. Not that Spud was that big. 720 people lived in Spud, now Spiner, and would for the next decade.

Today, Spiner had Dollar General, Walmart, four gas stations, a Burger King, and a Taco Bell. Spiner also was the largest employer of the Iowans, living as far away as two hours. Emlusian, a plastics manufacturer, bought a chunk of Heaven Sent Dairy, which would eventually close due to their financial mismanagement. The Emlusian corporation purchased the remaining land for less than they paid for their initial purchase from Heaven Sent. Not that fifty-thousand dollars was all that much for the multimillion-dollar company.

Floyd Patterson spent his life growing up in and around that dairy farm, working with several farmhands who, as of 1995, had passed away. His former employer and close friend, Gary Edison, taught him more than he ever wanted to know about cows, the dairy process, products, how to make cheese, how to make sure the milk is best, what grain to feed to cattle, and so on. There was too much information to learn, too much for him to remember. Floyd wasn’t all that bright; even his teachers in school said as much. He had a memory, to be sure, and one hell of a strong work ethic. But educated? That wasn’t a descriptor that fit him.

Gary left Floyd in charge of the dairy, which is one of many reasons the funds were mismanaged. It wasn’t that Floyd did anything wrong, per se. More than he trusted the wrong people at the wrong time. For years, Floyd’s financial advisor, Mark Unger, snowed him into believing he needed to sign over the company to him. It took about eight years before Unger had a controlling interest in the dairy, taking out a three million dollar loan in the name of the Heaven Sent Dairy. Unger insulated himself from prosecution, signing various documents and holding the board and its members legally responsible instead of him personally. The advantage of doing this was that it gave him security against civil suits and personal liability. But his attorney, Zander Melton, the real mastermind behind the Heaven Sent Dairy fiasco, kept him in the dark about criminal culpability. Unger was convicted of committing wire fraud, embezzlement, and money laundering, landing him in Federal prison for no less than twenty years. At age 37, Unger looked at the potential for early release in 2010. Fifteen years seemed better than twenty, but his plea deal included ratting out the Zaterelli crime family and Zander. Floyd spent those years squirreling away what little was left after the settlements in the civil case, about thirteen thousand dollars, all told. More than enough to survive in Iowa for the remaining years of his life. He didn’t expect to live much longer.    

“Ya know, I’ve been trying for years to figure you out, Floyd,” Kathy said, refilling his coffee cup. “I suppose yous gonna want your regular? Grilled cheese and tomato soup instead of those pancakes?”

Floyd glared at her, sipping his coffee at the same time. It was a tremendous feat of concentration, holding the ceramic mug and glaring. But Floyd perfected the move, having been through more waitresses than just Kathy. She was in line as a regular fixture at the diner. Janice went through her fair share of wait and kitchen staff.

“Coffee too?” Kathy asked, winking as she said it. The door opened, and two more regulars walked in. “Afternoon, Jim. Afternoon, Doc.” Both men wore cowboy boots covered in what could only be dried mud, the dirt a sandy brown color.

“Howya doin’ Kathy?” Doc asked. “This old coot givin’ you trouble?” Doc pointed at Floyd.

“Youns older than me, ya know that, right?” Floyd shot back.

“Put a sock in it, Floyd,” Jim interjected. Jim was tall, thin, and lanky. A scraggly beard covered his nonexistent chin, more gray than black. Unlike Doc’s MAC truck logo trucker’s hat, a wide-brimmed Stinson topped Jim’s head. Jim was a cattle rancher, and Doc was the local veterinarian, covering all three towns plus a hundred miles in any direction from Hanover, Tweed, and Spiner. Both men smelled like Jim’s cattle ranch.

“Why don’tcha come over here and make me,” Floyd said, starting to slide out of his booth. “Tall, lanky, sumbitch. Think you own me now, do ya? Buy up all my land and then sit there, tellin’ me to put a sock in it? Let’s go!” Floyd shouted, balling up his fists.

“Sit your happy ass right back down.” Doc tried to calm him down, pushing him back to the booth. “You don’t want a piece of him.” Doc, being a big man, hid Jim from Floyd’s sight. Exam rooms, loads of Janice’s homemade pancakes, bacon, eggs, and steaks from Jim’s cows packed on a few extra pounds. In ten years, the man tripled in size, no longer caring about his heart or the possible stroke, even though his family history included various health issues, the hot spots being diabetes and heart disease. But Doc just didn’t care. Either that, or he felt he was too old to do anything about it. Doc’s tone wasn’t upset or mad. Just a matter of fact. He knew that Jim could take out Floyd, but he didn’t want to treat injuries from either man. As the local vet, many residents came to him asking for his professional diagnosis, even though he worked more on cattle than any other animal. But the residents thought of him as a doctor all the same. “You don’t want this. And Jim,” he looked at the skinny man, “you don’t want none of this neither.”

“Fine.” Floyd slid back into the booth, snatching up his coffee. He pulled out a cigarette from his pack of unfiltered Camels, licking his lips, then the butt of the smoke, biting on the end with his teeth. Floyd quit smoking eight years ago, not because it got too expensive or because it was affecting his health. He was tired of it. Simple as that. But he carried the pack, often sticking one of the unfiltered cancer sticks between his lips without striking a match to light it. He twiddled the book of matches between his fingers, contemplating striking one and sparking up the smoke.

Jim reached for Floyd’s smokes. “Thought you quit,” he said, lighting a cigarette from Floyd’s pack with his Zippo. The Zippo had some kind of engraving on it. Long since faded, the remaining lettering was impossible to make out.

“Someone’s gotta support youns habit, I ‘ppose.”

Jim nodded, a slight grin crossing his lips. “Be good now, you old coot.”

“You too,” Floyd nodded back.

Jim and Doc sat at the bar, closest to the cash register, near the entrance of the diner’s kitchen. “Ya’ll want coffee, Jim? Doc?” Kathy called out from the kitchen.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Doc started to get up and walk behind the counter, where the cups and coffee sat on the hot burner.

“You best sit your happy butt right back down, ‘fore I make you,” Kathy shouted, coming out of the kitchen with Floyd’s cheesy sandwich and soup. Stacked neatly on the side of the plate was a stack of ten Saltine crackers and a small sous cup full of oyster crackers. “I shoulda made youns eat them pancakes and eggs, you old coot.”

“Stop calling me that!” Floyd spat.