The diner sat on the corner like a forgotten memory - checkered floors, chrome stools, and a jukebox coughing up Elvis through blown-out speakers. It was the kind of place that smelled like burnt coffee, missed opportunities, and dead dreams reheated on the grill.

Sam sat at the counter, fifty, white, and wearing a suit that looked like it had been pressed by regret. He stared into his Cobb salad like it had murdered someone he loved.

From a booth by the window, a man named Harry watched him over the rim of his chipped mug. Harry had the kind of face that looked carved out of bad decisions and unpaid debts. His eyes were small, suspicious, and always scanning for the next angle.

He shuffled over with the grace of a retired leg-breaker and topped off Sam's coffee without asking.

"You doin' alright, pal?" Harry asked, like the question might come with a bill.

Sam didn't look up. "No. No, I'm not."

Harry nodded like he already knew. "Harry. Been in this joint longer than the wallpaper. Mind if I ask... someone steal something from you?"

Sam blinked. "How'd you know that?"

Harry gave a half-shrug. "Been in this business long enough, you start to smell grief like sour milk. So what'd they take?"

"My mother's ashes," Sam said, like it hurt to say it out loud.

Harry blinked, then whistled low. "Damn. That's cold."

"We were in Hawaii. Anniversary trip. Came back, house cleaned out like a buffet after a fat man's funeral."

Sam's hand trembled over the salad. "TV, laptop, jewelry - I don't care. But the urn? That was my mother. Gone."

Harry placed a hand on Sam's shoulder like he was about to baptize him in bullshit. "I know a guy. Finds things. Real bloodhound type. Name's Reggie."

Sam looked up. "You serious?"

"Dead as disco," Harry said, pulling out a flip phone so old it probably had a rotary dial. He made the call.

Fifteen minutes later, the bell above the diner door chimed. In walked Reggie - latino, smooth, and dressed like he was auditioning for Casablanca: The Reboot. Fedora, polished shoes, brown jacket slicker than an oil spill.

He sat beside Sam like he'd done it a thousand times.

"So," Reggie said, "I hear someone made off with your dearly cremated."

"My mom," Sam said. "Please? I've tried everything. Cops. PIs. Even posted a reward."

Reggie smiled like a vulture at a funeral. "I can help you. For the reward money, of course."

"Anything," Sam said, eyes pleading. "How long?"

Reggie cracked his neck. "Give me a week."

And just like that, he was gone.

Seven days later, Reggie showed up at Sam's front door holding an urn wrapped in a stained dish towel.

"Here she is," he said. "All accounted for."

Sam held the urn like it was made of gold and forgiveness. "How'd you find her?"

Reggie tipped his hat. "I got sources."

He took the envelope full of cash, nodded once, and vanished.

Later that night, Reggie parked in a dim alley behind a liquor store and slid into a black Buick. Harry was waiting in the passenger seat, lighting a cigarette with the same hand he used to pick pockets.

Reggie handed him half the cash.

"Thanks for the lead," Reggie said. "Didn't realize that place I hit had an urn in the closet. Would've left it if I knew."

Harry snorted. "Sentimental thief. What is this, Hallmark Noir?"

They laughed, the kind of laugh that doesn't warm rooms.

Then they pulled out of the alley and into the night, two vultures in a Cadillac, scouting the next poor bastard still clinging to the illusion of safety.

Because in this town, grief's just another business.