Chapter 6: Nothing During Service

By nine o'clock on Friday the dining room was full, the bar was three deep, and Karl Hartmann had not looked at me once.

He stood at the end of the bar in a white shirt with the towel on his shoulder.

He poured a brandy Old Fashioned for the bowling team.

I stood at the pass with six tickets hanging above my head and a basket of cod in my hand.

I watched him not look.

It was the best acting I had ever seen.

"Table nine, two cod, one perch!" I called.

"Team Basia is up three to one," a regular shouted from the bar.

"Bet's on the batter," the bowler said. "Not the cook."

"Same thing."

Karl wiped a glass and did not smile.

I tipped the basket onto the plate and slid it under the lamp.

The server snatched it.

Someone had written a word in pencil on the card over my fryer, under his mother's old ink.

The word was seltzer.

I did not ask who.

I knew the handwriting from the bar's inventory sheet.

At nine-fifteen the line eased for the first time all night.

I wiped my hands on my apron and pushed open the walk-in door.

I went into the cold with a clipboard I did not need.

I checked the cod tubs, taking my time with each one.

The door opened behind me, and cold air rushed, and then the door closed.

I did not turn around.

"We've got a rule," Karl said.

"I know. Nothing during service."

"You came in here," he said.

"I'm checking stock."

"You've counted that case four times."

He was right behind me, close enough that I felt the heat of his chest through two layers of cotton.

"Hartmann," I said. "Seconds are Friday."

"Nothing during service, Wrobel."

He said it low and mean, and it was the best thing I had heard all week.

"Then stop me," I said.

His hand closed over the back of my neck, under my braid.

He walked me out of the walk-in without a word.

The prep alcove sat just past the cooler door, behind a steel shelf of sheet pans that hid it from the line.

A long stainless table stood in it.

On the other side of the shelf I could hear the fryers, the dish pit and the dishwasher's radio.

Nobody could see us unless they walked around.

He turned me and put me against the table, face first, with my palms flat on the cold steel.

"Four minutes," he said in my ear. "Before somebody wants you."

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