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Any restaurant I’ve ever worked in, including my own, that’s 100 percent accurate. End of the night garbage dump is what we called it at the café. My perfect post shift meal is classic Kraft mac and cheese. My heart plucks for my crew at the café, but I shove it down.

“Food is ten dollars. Comes with whatever side we have. Today is stewed okra and tomatoes. Two hot dogs to an order. No special orders and no tax on food. Bottle beer and cocktails are ten, draft is seven, and it’s the bigger cups.”

“Does a margarita count as a one liquor?”

“Yes, because we have a bottle of premix, same with a whiskey sour. But no measuring anything. A martini has two liquors so they can have cold vodka or gin but no vermouth. We don’t carry it. We have no garnish and no bitters, liqueurs or call brands. We’re misogynists here.”

“I’m sorry?”

He laughs. “We only carry the men.”

“Men?” I turn to look at him and glare.

He explains, “Jack, Jose, Ron, Captain, Tito, Beefeater, Jim, Jamieson and Jonnie.”

“Isn’t Jonnie a little high end?” I ask as I smile.

“Yes.”

“You drink that, don’t you?” He grins.

“Yes. And it’s the only drink that’s double in price.”

“Gotcha. Employee discount?” I ask.

“Drink whatever you want, you fall down, break something or fuck something up, you pay for that shit. Show me your driver’s license.”

I pull out my new Tacoma ID. He takes a picture. “Where do you live, Fiona Salvatore?”

“I rented a small house a couple of streets over,” I tell him the address.

“Cool.”

“I pay you under the table. Is that cool?”

“Very.”

“Don’t care too much around here. You’re not one of those people, are you?”

“No. I don’t care at all. And if this helps, I’m dead inside.”

He puts his hand out again, “Welcome aboard. I’ll be back in a couple hours. This is Ralph. He’s a regular. He’ll know any answer to a question you have.” Then he yells, “Boomer!” The enormous black man, and I say that having been married to a ‘6’6” and cut like a bulldog ready for a fight’ man, tips his head into the bar.” Boomer, this is Fi. New bartender. Boomer’s your door, your security, and your keg bitch. And he walks you home at night.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

He nods and goes back to his post. With my training complete, Bear leaves and I lean back and survey the dingy bar, smiling at how quickly money can change your life.

Chapter

Sixteen

Poppy

Shifts at the bar are what I live for. There’s a lilt to the air here, like it’s winking at you. Like the humidity could catch you if you fall because it’s so thick. I’m grateful to slog through it for these last couple of months because the humidity is omnipresent and lives on your skin. I can feel it. It’s nice to feel something.

I grab bottles of water at the tiny store that overcharges tourists for just about everything. “Fiona, why so much water?”

“You do know it’s 1000 degrees.” The woman who works behind the counter every day until two, hoots. I’m dripping and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her sweat. “Where you been? You’re late today.” I grin at her.