“Right.”
“But if they’re still around in a half hour, have Darlene set me up a plate with sides. She knows what I like.”
“Okay.”
“And Johnny?”
“What?”
“Are we done with your music for today? Because it all sounds like the same song.”
“This is Thievery Corporation, Dad.”
“I don’t care if it’s General Motors and IBM combined. We sell food here, not tabs of X.”
“ Tabs of X?” John chuckled.
“That’s not the right term?”
“Maybe you ought to stick to your own era. Love beads and bell-bottoms, like that.”
“Son, that was before my time.”
“I’m going to talk to Darlene.”
“Go ahead.”
“She’s stoked about tomorrow’s special: shrimp Creole.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“The shrimp’s on sale this week.”
“Just don’t get too extravagant. This ain’t the Prime Rib.”
Alex watched John walk down the rubber mats. He stopped to talk to an NAB executive on the way back to the prep area. He asked him about his meal, and what he’d like to see on the menu in the future. The executive seemed pleased that his opinion was being solicited. He had been eating here for years, and he and Alex had not exchanged more than a few pleasant but weightless words.
By the grill, Darlene stood with her spatula pointed up at the drop ceiling, making a chin motion toward Johnny, then smiling at Alex. Beside her, Blanca was whistling as she began to wrap and store her colds. Rafael was doing some Latin Joe two-step back by the dishwasher. Okay, so they all seemed happier when Johnny was in the house. Not that Alex was a slave driver or a grouch. But the boy did brighten the place like a coat of fresh paint. Still, Johnny had plenty to learn.
“Love beads,” said Alex as a customer stepped up to the register, guest check in hand.
“What’s that?” said the man.
“My son thinks I’m a dinosaur.”
“Join the club. The difference is, mine has no ambition and he can’t cook.”
“Come by tomorrow,” said Alex, experiencing an unfamiliar twinge of pride as the man pushed bills across the counter. “He’s doin something with shrimp.”
Charles Baker had gone into the nursing home for a few hours, on account of his PO, a nice-looking Latina gal, had scheduled a meet. It went all right. He told her he liked his job and had a real good attitude about the future, all the bullshit she wanted to hear. She said that the urine sample he’d given to the clinic had tested fine. It was no surprise to him that he’d dropped a negative. He drank just a little, which was legal for an offender, but did not smoke reefer. Even in his youth, he had not cared for it. It was just as well. The plans he had made were complicated, and for them to work out, his head needed to be right.
His African supervisor covered for him, told the parole lady that Baker had fulfilled his duties and in general was one of his Johnny-on-the-spot employees. The PO went on her way, and as soon as her car was gone, so was Baker.
He caught a crosstown bus where Branch Avenue met Pennsylvania. He was on it, headed west, when his cell rang, showing a blocked number. Baker answered his phone.
“Yeah.”
“Charles Baker?”
“That’s right.”
“This is Peter Whitten.”
Baker grinned. He cleared his throat. He sat up straight on the bench seat he was sharing with a dude who was wearing a coat that smelled like unwashed ass.
“Mr. Whitten. Thank you for calling me.”
“Just to be clear, this is the Charles Baker who left a note in my mailbox, isn’t it?”
“It is me.”
“I think we should meet face-to-face. How does that sound to you?”
“My thoughts, too,” said Baker, going for refined.
“What about tomorrow? Are you free for lunch?”
“Why, yes.”
“There’s a place I like… Do you have a pen?”
“I’ll remember it.”
Peter Whitten gave him the name of the restaurant, its location, and the time of the reservation. “You should wear a jacket. I think they require it.”
“Will do,” said Baker. “See you then.”
He closed his cell. He stared out the window and felt himself smile. He had expected Whitten to be angry at first, if he responded at all. But the man sounded downright reasonable. People with money just did business differently. They acted civilized. Baker wasn’t accustomed to manners and reason, but he could get with it. Wasn’t always violence that got shit done.
This was going to be easy.
Alex Pappas stood by the register, counting out the change drawers, his left hand cupped below the edge of the counter as he slid coins into it with the forefinger of his right. His lips moved as he calculated the amounts and entered them on a calculator the size of a paperback novel. The sun had passed, leaving him in the pale yellow glow of the overhead conical lamps.
Alex cut the register tape at three to hide some profit from the tax man. He left enough money in a metal cash box to get started in the morning, locked the box in the stand-up freezer, and took the remaining cash home to Vicki, who managed their finances, just as he had delivered the chrimahta to his mother when he had first taken over the business. The system worked, and he felt there was no reason to change it.
Juana and Blanca were gone, always the first to leave. Rafael had finished mopping and rolled the industrial- sized bucket and wringer out to the back hall. Johnny and Darlene were by the grill area, working out a recipe in a notebook, Darlene having changed into her street clothes, an outfit complete with matching handbag. It was her routine to come back into the shop from the hallway bathroom, dressed nicely, before going home. Alex knew she wanted him to have a look at her, the way she’d done when they were teenagers. Telling him that she was a grill girl in a uniform but also a woman with a life outside the store.
Rafael ambled down the other side of the counter and had a seat on the stool nearest the register. He too had changed into clean clothing and had doused himself with strong cologne.
“Hey, boss.”
Alex finished counting quarters and made an entry on the calculator.
“Rafael. You got a little behind today on the deliveries. Was there a problem?”
“Blanca send me too far away, all the way to Si’teenth Street. Then when I get there, the lady don’t have the money collected for the order.”
“Sixteenth’s out of our delivery area.”
“I know it!”
“All right, I’ll speak to Blanca.”
Rafael did not move to leave. Alex waited, knowing Rafael wanted one of two things. Advice, because he had no father in this country, or money, because he was always short on cash.
“One more thing, boss.”
“Yes?”
“I’m takin a girl out to dinner tonight.”
“One of our customers or a round-the-way girl?”
“I don’t mess with the customers.”
