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Authors: Richard Russo
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about to plant an elbow on the Formica counter and challenge Miles to arm-wrestle.
“Be right there,” he called, then turned to David, who was handing napkins to Horace to stuff in the dispensers. “You got help tonight?”
“Charlene,” David said. “I think she just pulled in.”
“You want me to stop by later?”
“Nope.”
Miles shrugged.
David grinned at him. “You’re out the back, aren’t you.” “You bet.”
Behind the restaurant, the first slot, beside the Dumpster, was occupied by Miles’s ten-year-old Jetta, the next one by Charlene’s even more dilapidated Hyundai Excel. He tried to make enough noise in his approach so as not to startle her, but Charlene’s radio was on loud enough that she jumped anyway when he appeared at her door.
“Jesus, Miles,” she croaked in the clenched-toothed manner of pot smokers, once she’d rolled down the window. Sweet smoke escaped along with an old Rolling Stones song. “Give me a coronary, why don’t you? I thought you were that asshole cop.” Meaning Jimmy Minty.
“Sorry,” Miles said, though in fact he wasn’t entirely displeased. Most women saw Miles coming and said so. Janine clearly had. “Don’t imagine you snuck up on me, Miles, because you didn’t,” she’d told him after accepting his proposal of marriage. That proposal had certainly taken him by surprise, and he’d taken this as an indication that Janine might be surprised too, but she wasn’t. The World’s Most Transparent Man, she called him. “Don’t ever consider a life of crime,” she advised. “You decide to rob a bank, the cops will know which one before you do.”
“How did things go last week?” he asked Charlene.
“Slow,” she said. “Dinners picked up, though.”
“They’ve been picking up.”
“Some of the college kids are filtering back in.”
Dinners were a relatively new thing. Until a year ago the restaurant was open only for breakfast and lunch, but David had suggested opening for dinner on weekends and trying to attract a different clientele, an idea opposed by Mrs. Whiting, who feared that they’d lose their old tried-and-true customers. Miles had managed to convince her that, for the most part, tried-and-true was done and gone. In the end she’d grudgingly consented, but only after being reassured that they wouldn’t ask for an advertising budget or make any changes in the breakfast and lunch menus or pester her for expensive redecoration to accompany the newer, more sophisticated dinner service.
At David’s suggestion they began by inviting students who wrote restaurant reviews for the college paper to a free meal. The college was seven miles away, in Fairhaven, and even Miles hadn’t believed that many students would make the trek, not when their parents were already shelling out more than twenty-five grand a year for tuition, room and board. But apparently there was money left over. When students started frequenting the Empire Grill, the cars parked out front—some of them, anyway—were BMWs and Audis. Summer had slowed some after this luxury fleet returned to Massachusetts and Connecticut, but Friday and Saturday nights still did well enough to justify staying open. David’s other brainstorm was also working out: during the week the restaurant now catered private parties.
“You and David think you can handle tonight okay?”
“In our sleep. Rehearsal dinner for twenty people.”
“Okay,” Miles said, not quite able to conceal his disappointment at not being needed.
Charlene, seeming to understand all this, changed the subject. “You and Tick have a good vacation?”
“Great,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t been so enthusiastic, actually. Now Walt’s thinking about opening a fitness club on the island.”
“I saw his van out front,” she said. “You want me to go in there and wither his dick?”
“Feel free,” Miles said, knowing that it was well within her power. Charlene, at forty-five, was still more than
“Be right there,” he called, then turned to David, who was handing napkins to Horace to stuff in the dispensers. “You got help tonight?”
“Charlene,” David said. “I think she just pulled in.”
“You want me to stop by later?”
“Nope.”
Miles shrugged.
David grinned at him. “You’re out the back, aren’t you.” “You bet.”
Behind the restaurant, the first slot, beside the Dumpster, was occupied by Miles’s ten-year-old Jetta, the next one by Charlene’s even more dilapidated Hyundai Excel. He tried to make enough noise in his approach so as not to startle her, but Charlene’s radio was on loud enough that she jumped anyway when he appeared at her door.
“Jesus, Miles,” she croaked in the clenched-toothed manner of pot smokers, once she’d rolled down the window. Sweet smoke escaped along with an old Rolling Stones song. “Give me a coronary, why don’t you? I thought you were that asshole cop.” Meaning Jimmy Minty.
“Sorry,” Miles said, though in fact he wasn’t entirely displeased. Most women saw Miles coming and said so. Janine clearly had. “Don’t imagine you snuck up on me, Miles, because you didn’t,” she’d told him after accepting his proposal of marriage. That proposal had certainly taken him by surprise, and he’d taken this as an indication that Janine might be surprised too, but she wasn’t. The World’s Most Transparent Man, she called him. “Don’t ever consider a life of crime,” she advised. “You decide to rob a bank, the cops will know which one before you do.”
“How did things go last week?” he asked Charlene.
“Slow,” she said. “Dinners picked up, though.”
“They’ve been picking up.”
“Some of the college kids are filtering back in.”
Dinners were a relatively new thing. Until a year ago the restaurant was open only for breakfast and lunch, but David had suggested opening for dinner on weekends and trying to attract a different clientele, an idea opposed by Mrs. Whiting, who feared that they’d lose their old tried-and-true customers. Miles had managed to convince her that, for the most part, tried-and-true was done and gone. In the end she’d grudgingly consented, but only after being reassured that they wouldn’t ask for an advertising budget or make any changes in the breakfast and lunch menus or pester her for expensive redecoration to accompany the newer, more sophisticated dinner service.
At David’s suggestion they began by inviting students who wrote restaurant reviews for the college paper to a free meal. The college was seven miles away, in Fairhaven, and even Miles hadn’t believed that many students would make the trek, not when their parents were already shelling out more than twenty-five grand a year for tuition, room and board. But apparently there was money left over. When students started frequenting the Empire Grill, the cars parked out front—some of them, anyway—were BMWs and Audis. Summer had slowed some after this luxury fleet returned to Massachusetts and Connecticut, but Friday and Saturday nights still did well enough to justify staying open. David’s other brainstorm was also working out: during the week the restaurant now catered private parties.
“You and David think you can handle tonight okay?”
“In our sleep. Rehearsal dinner for twenty people.”
“Okay,” Miles said, not quite able to conceal his disappointment at not being needed.
Charlene, seeming to understand all this, changed the subject. “You and Tick have a good vacation?”
“Great,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t been so enthusiastic, actually. Now Walt’s thinking about opening a fitness club on the island.”
“I saw his van out front,” she said. “You want me to go in there and wither his dick?”
“Feel free,” Miles said, knowing that it was well within her power. Charlene, at forty-five, was still more than
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