I pulled on my navy coat and walked the four blocks down to Main Street.

At six o’clock the Oakridge Diner was nearly empty, apart from two high school boys by the jukebox and the cook scraping down the grill.

Donald sat in the back booth with a brown accordion file laid flat on the Formica table.

“I can’t talk to you as a bank officer outside the building,” Donald said as I slid in across from him.

“This meeting is strictly off the record.”