Page 7 of Fated to the Gargoyle

“Andy, I have been tipped in lottery tickets before. Respectfully. This is fine.” I meet his eyes long enough for him to see I’m not worried about it, then get back to wiping.

He grumbles off to the office.

I finish wiping the seat and drop the quarter in my apron pocket. My feet ache, the dining room hums, and somewhere in the middle of it my stomach has finally quit arguing.

This one is going to be just fine.

4

TREASURE

The dinner rush thins to a trickle, and the last customers clear out. Lamar and I are prepping for close when Andy comes barreling out of the back with his coat on.

“I’m leaving early,” he announces.

I straighten up from the booth I’m wiping. “…Okay.”

“You know how to close?” He’s already angled toward the door, keys in his hand.

“Better than you’re doing at leaving.” I rest my weight on one hip.

“Safe code’s on an index card under the register, and I better not hear you told anyone. Count the drawer twice before you drop it. Mop last or you’re pushing dirt around all night. Back door first, then the front, and rattle the handle on your way out. Half this town knows it sticks.” He fires it off without taking a breath.

“That all?” I wave him toward the door. “Go home, Andy.”

“And.” He points a finger at me and steps close. “If anyone comes in here tonight asking about that Help Wanted sign, don’t turn them away. I’m still interviewing. I’ll know if you turned someone away, Treasure. I got a feeling for these things.”

I should take that sign down just to spite his paranoid ass.

“Sure, Andy.” I hold his stare.

He leans in a fraction more, close enough to show me the red rimming his eyes. “I mean it.”

“I hear you.” I keep my voice even and my face closed.

He squints at me a moment, then stomps out the front door in a gust of cold air that rattles the little silver bell. The door swings shut behind him.

Lamar leans against the pass-through window with his arms crossed. He’s been smiling this whole time. “Don’t worry about him.”

“Is he like this with everyone, or am I special?” I pick my rag back up and go back to the booth.

“Oh, you’re special. He usually waits a week before the threats.” Lamar pushes off the window and starts scrubbing the grill, but he keeps watching me sideways. “Don’t take it personal.”

“This is a very healthy workplace.” I grin at him over my shoulder. “I’m having a great time.”

Lamar laughs and turns to his line, and I take the floor.

I love closing. That’s a weird thing to admit about a waitressing job, but after a shift of noise, an empty dining room is mine. Even the buzz of the coolers helps.

I wipe down every booth from back to front and chase out the crumbs, the dried streaks, and one smear I’m calling gravy. I restock the ketchups, refill the sugar caddies, and line up the salt and pepper shakers so they all face the same way. The day-shift girl will mess them up tomorrow, but tonight they’re straight.

The broom’s bristles are worn down to nubs, but it gets everything out from under the seats and stools.

The drawer comes up right on the first count, and I run it again anyway before it goes in the safe. Apparently the paranoia is catching.

By the time I’m done, the lights are off, the back door is locked and rattle-checked, and my coat and purse are in my hands.

Lamar’s waiting for me up front with his jacket on. “I’ll walk you out.”