Golden Gate Fields stable pass hanging from his belt.
âJockeys,â I said as we settled into the seats.
âWatch your mouth,â said Chad. âHow do you know those guys have jock itch?â
I began to explain that they were probably jockeys from the racetrack across the freeway, but then I saw Chadâs grin. He picked up a slice of dill pickle left on the tabletop, and made a motion like he was going to skim it over to me.
I couldnât see this big-boned, good-humored guy using a gun on anyone.
When a police unit rolled into the parking lot, right past the white Pontiac, Chad stopped swirling the ice water around in his glass. The cops were coasting very slowly, and Chad leaned forward to watch as the two cops conferred in the front seat of their city of Richmond squad car.
Chad put both hands on the table, and I thought that he was ready to bolt out of the booth.
Then one of the cops came in to place an order to go, and Chad sat back. He started in on a story, how his brother gave him his first basketball, and how convicts play one-on-one in the prison yard.
Chad and Raymond dropped me off outside the Buccaneer Cafeteria, near the back entrance, where the offices are.
âYou work here?â asked Chad. He squinted around at the building, the row of Dumpsters, the parked cars, his expression full of mock pity and amazement, How can people live like this ?
They left me there, Chad giving me a wave out the window.
Marlo, the woman at the pay window, beamed at me, crinkling her eyes behind her half-lens glasses, but she said I couldnât have my final paycheck until âthe end of the payment cycle,â nearly two weeks off.
I wanted to make more of an argument, but I wasnât really surprised. âCould you look in the computer and seeâmaybe they could make an exception.â
âOh, Steven, the only time thereâs an exception is if you die. Mr. Gartner cuts a dead personâs check right away.â
Marlo is one of those people with rings on almost every finger, silver in various patterns. She fidgets with the rings as she talks, as though none of them are quite the right size.
âBut a dead person wouldnât actually have much need of any money,â I said. I had the feeling that Chad would have approved of my approach.
âThat shows what you know,â said Marlo.
âMake believe Iâm dead,â I offered.
âPlus, only three days into the pay cycle, with your laundry bill, which covers the cleaning of work apparel, the withholding taxes and the Social Security and the workmanâs comp payment and everything else, you might not want to count too heavily on the check.â
âYou could give me an estimate,â I said.
She popped the end candy off a tube of peppermints, a round pill she put on the end of her tongue.
I delayed leaving, timing my visit to see Danielle come off duty, and when she did she was walking with Hugo, a line chef from the kitchen, a tall, red-haired guy who spent a lot of time with tiny earphones, getting them to fit into his ears just right. Even now he had earphones around his neck, the thin, stringy kind, like a fashion accessory Line chefs make good money, and they have a future, working their way up from shoving lasagna into the big ovens, picking up the secrets of the trade.
Danielle wasnât holding hands with him, but she was close to him, matching him stride for stride as they came through the swinging doors. Hugo sported a western-style belt and fake-pearl button shirts when he wasnât dressed in his chef whites. His cowboy boots made impressive clumping, scuffing sounds on the asphalt as he strode easily along, a little over six feet but only about 170, I guessed. A ballplayer build, tennis, soccer. We had always been friendly in a casual way.
âHi, Steven,â she said, hesitating politely in case I had anything I wanted to say. Giving me an open, serious expression, ready
âJockeys,â I said as we settled into the seats.
âWatch your mouth,â said Chad. âHow do you know those guys have jock itch?â
I began to explain that they were probably jockeys from the racetrack across the freeway, but then I saw Chadâs grin. He picked up a slice of dill pickle left on the tabletop, and made a motion like he was going to skim it over to me.
I couldnât see this big-boned, good-humored guy using a gun on anyone.
When a police unit rolled into the parking lot, right past the white Pontiac, Chad stopped swirling the ice water around in his glass. The cops were coasting very slowly, and Chad leaned forward to watch as the two cops conferred in the front seat of their city of Richmond squad car.
Chad put both hands on the table, and I thought that he was ready to bolt out of the booth.
Then one of the cops came in to place an order to go, and Chad sat back. He started in on a story, how his brother gave him his first basketball, and how convicts play one-on-one in the prison yard.
Chad and Raymond dropped me off outside the Buccaneer Cafeteria, near the back entrance, where the offices are.
âYou work here?â asked Chad. He squinted around at the building, the row of Dumpsters, the parked cars, his expression full of mock pity and amazement, How can people live like this ?
They left me there, Chad giving me a wave out the window.
Marlo, the woman at the pay window, beamed at me, crinkling her eyes behind her half-lens glasses, but she said I couldnât have my final paycheck until âthe end of the payment cycle,â nearly two weeks off.
I wanted to make more of an argument, but I wasnât really surprised. âCould you look in the computer and seeâmaybe they could make an exception.â
âOh, Steven, the only time thereâs an exception is if you die. Mr. Gartner cuts a dead personâs check right away.â
Marlo is one of those people with rings on almost every finger, silver in various patterns. She fidgets with the rings as she talks, as though none of them are quite the right size.
âBut a dead person wouldnât actually have much need of any money,â I said. I had the feeling that Chad would have approved of my approach.
âThat shows what you know,â said Marlo.
âMake believe Iâm dead,â I offered.
âPlus, only three days into the pay cycle, with your laundry bill, which covers the cleaning of work apparel, the withholding taxes and the Social Security and the workmanâs comp payment and everything else, you might not want to count too heavily on the check.â
âYou could give me an estimate,â I said.
She popped the end candy off a tube of peppermints, a round pill she put on the end of her tongue.
I delayed leaving, timing my visit to see Danielle come off duty, and when she did she was walking with Hugo, a line chef from the kitchen, a tall, red-haired guy who spent a lot of time with tiny earphones, getting them to fit into his ears just right. Even now he had earphones around his neck, the thin, stringy kind, like a fashion accessory Line chefs make good money, and they have a future, working their way up from shoving lasagna into the big ovens, picking up the secrets of the trade.
Danielle wasnât holding hands with him, but she was close to him, matching him stride for stride as they came through the swinging doors. Hugo sported a western-style belt and fake-pearl button shirts when he wasnât dressed in his chef whites. His cowboy boots made impressive clumping, scuffing sounds on the asphalt as he strode easily along, a little over six feet but only about 170, I guessed. A ballplayer build, tennis, soccer. We had always been friendly in a casual way.
âHi, Steven,â she said, hesitating politely in case I had anything I wanted to say. Giving me an open, serious expression, ready
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