Coda

 Thanksgiving, 1935

The three of them sat at their usual booth, a slightly yellowed, freshly laundered, cloth draped across the table.  Outside a slurry of drizzle mixed with light snow fell on the quiet city streets.  The industrial corridor was typically absent of pedestrian foot traffic, but the holiday added a layer of tranquility on top of the otherwise laconic atmosphere.  Inside the diner, the atmosphere was anything but solemn.

"So your parents are ok that you're not coming home for Thanksgiving?" The smell of a brined and butter-soaked turkey wafting from the kitchen made Spinoza slightly more hopeful, slightly more irritable in every statement he issued.

Vera quaffed the remaining ounce of wine from her glass, nodding.  "Yup.  I told them I'd be home for Christmas when the school break's longer and that it's not worth spending the money now for such a short period.  I also told them, given all we've been through in recent times, I felt it appropriate to spend time with my new friends."

Spinoza colored at the oblique compliment.  It didn't go unnoticed by Vera.  "Are you blushing?  I'd expect that from ol' softy here," she jerked a thumb at Tannehill who was staring wistfully out the window at the wintery mix, "but not from a grizzled veteran such as yourself."  This observation made Spinoza blush harder.

The ensuing weeks hadn't done much - visibly - to shake the foundation of the city.  To the average citizen, the story read as depressingly familiar: corrupt policeman on the force attempted to strongarm his way into apportioning a share of stolen goods and, by pure happenstance, seemed to have been caught in the act before too many innocent people could've been harmed.  Beneath the veneer, however, things didn't remain in stasis.  The department heads realized that the potential murder of six individuals - thieves or not - by a sworn police officer in furtherance of another crime was a bridge too far.  Though introspection may have been too generous a term to describe the thought process behind their next steps, they did realize that the "Protect and Serve" portion of their oath didn't meet the appropriate accuracy standards for their purposes, so they began to root out the most corrupt actors and hire others true to the stated ideals of the city.  

Even more stunning was the realization that, in conjunction with the press, certain individuals - i.e. Novak - worked to pursue justice rather than cover the events up and allow the internal mechanisms of retribution to take control.  Murphy was due to face his literal day in court rather than receive a slap on the wrist or a bullet to the back of the head in an alley puddle as former department protocol may have merited. 

The department, recognizing Tannehill's inherent moral compass and eager to build upon past relationships, offered him a high ranking position in the brass with a substantial pay increase.  He promptly followed his moral compass and turned it down, aware that - for any well-meaning citizen installed at that level - the temptation could be too great.  Instead, he opted for a more modest consulting role that still allowed him to move into a larger apartment - one with a full bedroom and a kitchenette - and buy a used car to replace the one sitting at the bottom of the bay.  At the current pay scale, he'd never become rich, but given the hard times people were still facing across the country, he was counting his blessings.

And now, in the halcyon days of bliss in which Capital City was beginning to find itself, Vera found herself in charge of planning and assembling a Thanksgiving dinner for the three of them and all of the employees and immediate family of The Happy Hour Diner.  Immediate family being a very limited group as most of the employees were itinerants with the exception of Happy, who had a wife and two full-figured daughters around her Vera's own age who smiled in equal measures as much as Happy frowned.

She stood up from the booth and heard Happy muttering nearby about her choice of mashed sweet potatoes of all things!  What's wrong with normal mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving?  What's next? Sweet potato fries?!  His grumbling faded as she passed the counter and entered the kitchen, happy to be allowed a moment of solitary tranquility with the amiable din just out of reach.  She took a deep breath, fearing for the worst, before opening the oven door and inspecting the turkey, watching the fat pop and sizzle on the bottom of the pan.  It looked golden and crisp, juices running clear when she poked its sizable breast. 

"Need a hand?" Spinoza stood behind the counter just out of sight.

She stood up, smoothing her dress, "No thanks," she turned to him smiling contently, "everything's perfect."

FIN

[Author's Note: For my mother.  804 words. 56,322 words]