Handsome brass. Cute waitresses. Bright n' breezy coffee places where twenty-somethings hang out with laptops all day. Very cliché. Bloody lovely intro to the good ol' U-S-of-A. 

Digger Harkness stood from his chair and pulled a couple scruffy bills from the pocket of his coat, handing them over the bar to the cashier behind in exchange for a take-away cup of hot mud. Tar black, no sugar. Bitter as his mother. He took a sip and scalded the back of his throat, groaning through the pain. A sharp wake-up on a hungover morning. Just what Harkness needed for a day of scouting. He donned his shades as he pushed through the glass doors of the pseudo-diner, and waited on the corner for three minutes before a boxy, navy-blue sedan rolled up and stopped beside him. The passenger-side door opened, and Harkness walked around and got in, the car beginning to leave barely before Harkness had taken his feet off the tarmac.
"Only the one coffee, Digger?" The driver asked, a burly man in a thick jacket and a heavy brow.
"Get off yer bike, mate. Wasn't gettin' office take-out."

-

An hour later, Harkness leant against a signpost on the square across from the Central City Main Bank. He was holding a phone up to his ear, talking to the driver who was currently inside the bank. Recon; not highly professional, but then neither was Harkness - just talented. The coffee was long gone, and instead, Harkness fetched a small flask from his coat and took a sharp swig, pulling air through his teeth as the back of his mouth burnt from the harsh vodka. Enough to keep the day going for now. The driver finished his recon, and Harkness told him to head to his new destination, hanging up the phone and binning it in the closest trachcan as he began to make his way across town.

-

Another hour; this time, the Central City PD HQ. Calm, but constant, traffic - in, out, squad cars and civilian. Cop numbers seemed...average. Harkness couldn't find any real elevated criminal presence in Central City, and in truth, it had been what had made him choose this city as his starting point. Metropolis was too big, and bank hits in Gotham were the normal Tuesday procedures for the cops there. Central was a good first hit - a good place to put his name on the map. Australia had bored him, run out of challenges. Self-deportation seemed like the next career move.

Harkness looked at his watch. Twelve blocks away, exactly to the minute, his erstwhile companion put a brick through a jewelry store window and sprinted away. Digger could hear the alarm bells on the wind, but he kept a fierce eye on his watch. One minute...two minutes...three minutes...

Three squad cars and a meat wagon roared from the headquarters in front of him, sirens blaring. Harkness took a mental note. He turned from the HQ in a flurry of heavy fabric and began hurrying away. Across the street, next to a newspaper vendor, stood a rack of payphones. Harkness grabbed the handset on the far-right, put some coins through the slot, and dialed a number he had memorized in the car two hours ago. 

"They there yet?" He asked. He looked at his watch again. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.

Eight minutes later the phone line crackled again. "They're in."
Harkness hung up the phone.

Eleven minutes total. Not bad, he had to admit. But...more than enough.