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For Aunt Evelyn
The restaurant was packed when Tom walked in. He glanced around until he found an old man sitting alone, sipping coffee. Tom walked over to the man, weaving around tables and through the other diners.
The man looked up at Tom as he stopped at the table, and nodded slightly.
“Are you Emmett Jacobson?” asked Tom.
“Sure am. You must be the reporter.” The man nodded at the chair across the table from him. “Sit.” His southern accent was strong.
“My name is Thomas Allen. You can call me Tom.” Tom extended his hand to the man for a handshake. The old man gave him a firm but quick pump and let go. Thomas had felt his skin, hard from calluses and tough like leather.