LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

backpack. Oh, Lord, she couldn’t afford to lose that. Where—? Kneeling, she spotted it halfway under the car and dragged it out. Her arms felt like overcooked spaghetti.

      “Hey, you want me to call someone to come get you?” It was the Cubs fan.

      “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” Standing with the backpack slung over her shoulder was a good deal harder than it should have been. Her knees weren’t in much better shape than her spaghetti arms.

      Surely it had been a freak accident.

      “Better sit down a minute. You’re pale as a ghost. Bleeding, too.”

      Irritation threatened to swamp good manners. She hated being fussed over. “I’m always pale. I’ll take care of the scrapes at work.”

      “You got far to go?”

      “Just up the block, at Hole-in-the-Wall.”

      He cast a dubious glance that way, which she perfectly understood. The restaurant was aptly named, an eyesore in an area that had once been solidly blue collar, but was skidding rapidly downhill. The neighborhood was seedy, a little trashy, not quite a slum…everything she’d fought so hard to leave behind.

      “You ain’t up to working yet,” he informed her with that particular male brand of arrogance that scraped on her pride like fingernails on a chalkboard.

      “I appreciate your concern, but it isn’t necessary.” She started limping down the sidewalk, hoping he would get the hint and go about his own business.

      It didn’t work. He kept pace with her. “Don’t trip over your ego, sister. I’m not hitting on you. Don’t care for teeny, tiny blondes with big mouths.” He shook his head. “You sure talk fancy for someone who works at the Hole.”

      Her unwanted escort had a pleasant tenor voice with surprising resonance. “Do you sing?”

      He gave her a startled glance. “Why?”

      She sighed. Most of the time she managed to keep her unruly tongue under control, but every now and then it flew free. “I wasn’t hitting on you, either. I don’t care for bossy males. Your voice reminded me of a tenor I heard sing ‘Ness’un Dorma.’”

      “You listen to opera, but you work at Hole-in-the-Wall?”

      “You recognize an aria from Turandot, but you poke holes in your body?”

      “Smart-mouthed, too,” he observed. “Why you working at the Hole?”

      “For my sins.” Which was all too literally true. But she was going to get things straightened out soon, she promised herself for the fortieth time. Somehow.

      They’d arrived at the steps that led down to the kitchen. She thanked her escort as politely as she could manage, hobbled down and pushed the door open.

      The kitchen was a long, narrow, crowded room. The cook, a stringy old man with limited notions of personal hygiene, gave her a sour look. “Better get moving. Zeno’s in a bad mood.”

      “How can you tell?”

      He snorted. “You go right ahead and smart off to him today like you been doin’. You’ll see.” He went back to flipping hamburger patties.

      Charlotte hobbled to the cubbyhole where employees could leave their things. Dammit, she really did need to mind her tongue. She needed this job, and the Hole—for all its obvious drawbacks—did have three things in its favor. First, it was within walking distance of the cupboard-size apartment she’d found. Second, Zeno was allergic to cigarette smoke, so the entire place was smoke-free. Third, he was sloppy about paperwork and regulations—a definite drawback in terms of health and safety regulations, but a plus for her personally. He hadn’t called any of the bogus references she’d listed on her application, and he didn’t question her social security card—a good thing, since the number wasn’t hers.

      A man who was running a bookie operation out of his restaurant really ought to be more scrupulous about following the rules in his legitimate business, she thought as she slung her backpack under the table. She pulled off her coat, giving the shabby, shapeless brown material a look of distaste as she hung it on a hook. Best not to think about the beautiful new cream-colored wool coat hanging in the closet in her apartment—her old apartment.

      The rent was paid up until the first. They won’t have sold her things yet, she told herself. Maybe she would still be able to get them back.

      “You’re late,” a deep voice growled from the doorway. “Shift starts at five, not whenever you get around to showing up.”

      She jumped, scowled and looked at the doorway. Zeno stood there glowering at her. He was a man who could glower well. The paunch, thick eyebrows and bristly jowls gave him a head start in the mean-and-nasty sweepstakes.

      Watch what you say, she reminded herself, and reached for the dusty first aid box on the top shelf. “A car nearly ran me down at the light.”

      “Late’s late. It happens again, you’re out of here.”

      “I would have been a lot later if the car had hit me.” She gave the cap on the peroxide bottle an angry twist. “And yes, I’m all right, thank you so much for asking.”

      “If you’re all right, you can get your butt out there and take orders.”

      “As soon as I’ve wiped the blood off. I’m pretty sure it’s a health code violation for me to bleed on the customers.” Stop that, she told herself. Zeno was not the kind of tyrant who admired those who stood up to him. He preferred quivering timidity. She pressed her lips together and began to clean the long scrape on her calf.

      “Maybe I didn’t explain when I hired you. I hate attitude. What I like is ‘yes, sir, no, sir, right away, sir.’ Got that, you stupid— What the hell do you want?” He turned on the waitress who’d come up behind him, a doe-eyed young woman named Nikki—“with two k’s and an i,” she’d told Charlotte when they were introduced. Like Charlotte, she was blond. All of Zeno’s waitresses were blond. Nikki was the kind the jokes were made for, though.

      “Mr. Jones wants to talk to you,” Nikki said nervously. “Table twelve.”

      “Why the hell didn’t you say so? And you, Madame Attitude—” he jabbed a thick finger in her direction “—you’ve got five minutes to get out on the floor, or you’re fired.”

      She tried to make herself say “yes, sir,” but the words wouldn’t come out. She’d said them to her former boss a thousand times, said them easily, naturally. Because he was a man who deserved her respect. Her throat closed up. Grant Connelly wouldn’t care about her respect. Not now. Not after what she’d done.

      She managed to nod stiffly. Zeno gave her one last glare and stomped off. Charlotte threw the bloody swab in the trash.

      “What happened to you, anyway?” Nikki asked, her eyes big.

      “I had a little accident on the way here. Stand in the doorway so no one comes in, would you?” She had no doubt Zeno had meant what he said about firing her if she wasn’t on the floor in five minutes. Her panty hose would have to come off right here. Charlotte grimaced, but accepted necessity.

      Nikki obligingly stood in the center of the narrow doorway while Charlotte took off her shoes, then reached up under her skirt to pull down the ruined panty hose. Her legs were going to freeze on the walk back to her overpriced cupboard when her shift was over…but cold legs were the least of her problems.

      “Zeno’s sure on a tear. You’d better put your apron on.”

      “It’s pink.” She pitched the panty hose in the trash, fumbled her shoes on and grabbed her order book. “I don’t do pink.”

      “We’re supposed to wear the aprons.”

      “I know.” Nikki wasn’t a bad sort—a bit dim, and with all the backbone of

Скачать книгу