One bitterly cold afternoon, a handful of customers lingered inside the Family Value hamburger restaurant on Grange Street, their meals finished, their welcome scattered in scraps on the discarded food trays. At precisely 2:45 P.M., a man stood on one of the small tables near the service counter. He had a black sports bag clutched to his chest. Nobody noticed him until he spoke in his unremarkable voice, until his words echoed across the near-empty expanse of fake wood below him. "It's time to pay your dues, Family Value," he said.