Chapter 3 - The Trap at the Station
The service hallway felt twice as loud when she stepped out.
Dorsey was standing four feet away, leaning against the linen press with a tray of used glasses in his hands. Bronwyn was right beside him, her phone tucked halfway into her apron pocket, her eyes bright with disappointment.
“Well?” Dorsey sneered, stepping into her path before she could reach the tray drop. “Did he scream at you? Did he write you a note telling you how useless you are?”
“The guest is eating,” Ren said, her voice dry as salt. She set the silver dome on the wash rack. “He requested to be left alone.”
“Did he talk to you?” Bronwyn asked, stepping closer, smelling of cheap rose perfume and cigarettes. “Did he say anything? He’s got that voice, right? Like gravel under a tire?”
“He didn't speak,” Ren said.
“Did he sign anything?” Dorsey pressed, leaning in until Ren could see the broken red veins around his nostrils. “Did he give you a tip slip? Did he look pissed off?”
“He looked like a man trying to eat his dinner,” Ren said. She wiped down her tray with a damp cloth. “I have two four-tops in the main room that need their checks.”
Dorsey’s eyes narrowed. “You don't get to walk away when I’m talking to you, Halloway. You took fifteen minutes in there. What were you doing? Trying to get him to look at your face?”
Corbin, passing by with a tub of dirty dishes, froze near the kitchen doors, looking nervously between Dorsey and Ren.
“I was doing my job,” Ren said, her voice dropping an octave, turning flat, dense, unyielding. “Which is what you should be doing instead of standing in a hallway hoping a customer ruins my night so you have something to talk about in the breakroom.”
Dorsey’s face flushed red, dark blood surging into his throat. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” Ren asked quietly. She looked Dorsey straight in his small, wet eyes. “You’ll fire me? Go ahead, Dorsey. Fire me on a Thursday rush when you’ve got two call-outs in the lounge and sixty covers coming in at eight. Do it. I’ll have my apron off in ten seconds.”
Dorsey’s jaw worked, but no sound came out. He knew she was right. He knew the floor would collapse without her holding down the north section.
“Get back to the floor,” he spat, turning on his heel. “And you’re staying until close to do the side work. All of it. The napkin folds, the silver rollups, the floor sweep.”
“Fine,” Ren said.
She picked up her check book and walked out into the main dining room.
The night wore on like a long, grey ribbon.
Ren ran. She swept through her section with silent, predatory efficiency. She carried three trays at once, cleared four-tops in two sweeps, remembered that Table Four wanted extra lemons and Table Seven needed their steak sauce on the side, hot, in a ramekin. She took forty dollars in tips from an elderly couple who liked that she didn't interrupt their story, and twenty from a businessman who was too busy talking on his earpiece to look at her face.
Her ankle throbbed with every third step, a sharp, white needle pushing into her tendon. She ignored it.
At nine-fifteen, the bell at the service pass rang twice.
Ren walked back toward the kitchen, her knees stiff, her fingers smelling of lemon juice and polished brass.
Dorsey was waiting by the pass, holding a small leather check presenter from Table Twelve. His face had gone from red to an odd, greyish yellow, like bad lard.
“What’s this?” Ren asked, stopping.
“Callaway’s check,” Dorsey said. He held it out with two fingers, as if it were hot. “His guy brought it out. Paid cash.”
Ren took the leather folder.
Inside lay the itemized bill for Table Twelve: sea bass, one bottle of ’09 Barolo, sparkling water. Total: three hundred and eighty dollars.
Tucked beneath the receipt were four crisp, uncreased hundred-dollar bills.
And a slip of paper tore from a leather-bound notebook.
Ren picked up the slip.
On it, in slanting, elegant ink, was written:
For the waitress who does not chatter.
Beneth it was a second line, written in heavier strokes:
Next Thursday. Same room. Same server.
Dorsey was watching her face, trying to read the paper from three feet away. “What’s it say? Is he complaining?”
Ren folded the paper twice, slipped it into her pocket, pulled out the exact total for the restaurant, and put the rest of the cash into her tip book.
May you like
“He said the sea bass was cooked properly,” Ren said softly.
She walked past Dorsey, pulled her tray from the rack, and went back out into the dining room to finish her shift.
