Free Water's Edge by Robert Whitlow

tree-lined street that ran in front of the courthouse. Two blocks to the south he stopped in front of the Chickamauga Diner and looked inside a large plateglass window. The restaurant was filled with people sitting in metal chairs around square black-vinyl-topped tables.
    The Chickamauga Diner hadn’t been around as long as the Civil War battlefield that gave the restaurant its name, but it had occupied the same location for two generations. On weekdays most of the patrons were local businessmen. Today, families with children dominated the lunch crowd. The diner didn’t offer plastic toys in bags, but the fried chicken was great.
    “Hey, Tom!” called out Alex Giles, the current owner of the diner. “Have a seat at the counter or wait for a table?”
    “I’ll sit at the counter.”
    Tom perched on a shiny black stool atop a chrome pole. Waitresses scurried back and forth carrying plates of food and small baskets of corn bread and yeast rolls. Alex’s mother refilled glasses with sweet tea. Several people nodded in greeting to Tom when they saw him. A mechanic who’d worked on the Crane family cars for years invited Tom to join his group, but Tom shook his head.
    “What’ll it be?” asked the unshaven cook, wiping his hands on a white apron.
    “I need something to get the taste of cheap Atlanta sushi out of my mouth,” Tom replied.
    “How about a steak burger on the grill topped off with onions, mushrooms, and American cheese? That’s as far from sushi as you can get.”
    “Sounds good.”
    The best grills season over time, and the sizzling flattop at the Chickamauga Diner was in prime condition. Tom watched the cook prepare his food. The man placed chopped onion directly on the grill and let it cook for a couple of minutes before adding the mushrooms. Opening the door of a small built-in refrigerator, he took out a large metal bowl filled with bright-red ground round and scooped out a generous portion that he formed into a thick patty. The meat sputtered when he dropped it on the grill. He dusted the top of the meat with salt and pepper.
    After turning the burger once, the cook added the onions and mushrooms, topped it off with the cheese, and hid it under an aluminum dome. He dropped both halves of the bun facedown on the flattop. Unveiling the meat, he deposited it on the lower half of the bun. The melted cheese dripped down the side of the sandwich. Crisp lettuce, a thick slice of fresh tomato, and a fat pickle rested beside the burger on a plastic plate.
    “Is that American enough for you?” the cook asked.
    “More than apple pie.”
    Tom carefully lifted the assembled product and opened his mouth as wide as possible. The first bite didn’t disappoint. The melded flavors caused his taste buds to stand up and cheer.
    Halfway through the sandwich Tom felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around. It was Charlie Williams, the local district attorney. In his midfifties, the prosecutor boasted that a felony indictment in Etowah County was a prepaid ticket to the penitentiary. He slid onto a vacant stool beside Tom.
    “What brings you back to town?” Williams asked.
    Tom wiped his mouth with a thin paper napkin. “Shutting down my father’s practice and settling his estate.”
    Williams, a former college football player, put his beefy hands on the counter, glanced around, and leaned closer to Tom. “I know he was having financial trouble. Was there enough life insurance to take care of everything?”
    It was a blatantly inappropriate question.
    “I’m working through that,” Tom replied carefully.
    Williams nodded. “He talked to me about his situation with the IRS. I told him Matt Franklin was the best young CPA in town and could probably cut a deal for him, maybe even get a reduction in the amount he owed. Did he ever contact Matt?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “You might want to check with him. He could help you too.”
    “Okay.”
    Williams slid his right hand across the counter, knocking a bread