There was an art to asking a favor. Tonya had learned it through trial and error thanks to farmer parents who’d been overextended in every way that counted. And the first part of that art was picking the right person to ask.
People you’ve helped in the past were best. After that, you wanted to hit up folks most likely to sympathize with your situation, the kind of people who would think but for the grace of God go I. Individuals with robber baron wealth could perhaps be counted on for lavish charitable gifts, but Tonya knew that such people didn’t see folks like her as worthy of their largesse—or even tax dollars. Those who worked for a living were more likely to offer a handout to individuals down on their luck, particularly when the individuals in question were neighbors and colleagues who might one day return the kindness.
Philip was the perfect target. Though he wasn’t exactly in Tonya’s debt, he knew that she’d been working for him at far below her usual salary and that her skill set would be in demand once the pandemic ended. If anyone would provide a bridge loan or an opportunity to earn more money, it would be him.
Tonya showed up at the restaurant ten minutes before 6:00 a.m., well before the start of her Saturday brunch shift. Typically, the prep cooks arrived at that hour to ready all the ingredients that would ultimately be incorporated into savory crepes and callaloo, poached eggs over cod fritters, and four other Philip Banks breakfast specialties mashing French classics with Caribbean flavors. Since losing his sous-chef, Philip had begun getting in around dawn as well.
Staff did not enter through the front door. Just before reaching Banque Gauche’s picture windows, Tonya ducked into a side alley, passing the industrial-sized dumpsters where the restaurant tossed its food waste. In the summer, it was nearly impossible to be in the narrow space without retching from the stink of curdled sauces and accumulated leftovers. But the winter transformed the bins into an outdoor icebox, leaving only a faint metallic scent.
The kitchen entrance was directly across from the garbage. Her shoes crunched on the pavement as she approached the door. She lifted her loafer, revealing what appeared to be glitter covering the rubber soles. Something had broken, Tonya realized. Maybe a glass or a plate.
Tonya winced, recalling her earlier accident with the full tray. She walked through the door with her head down, weighted by the residual shame of the memory and her desire not to call attention to herself. The kitchen’s station heads viewed themselves as an offensive line protecting their quarterback from being hit from behind. They would run interference if they thought she was trying to blindside Philip with a request.
As she reached the walk-in fridge, Tonya realized that such caution wasn’t necessary. No cooks chopped atop butcher blocks or brought ingredients to and from the pantry. The hustle and bustle that Tonya was accustomed to wasn’t simply subdued; it was nonexistent.
The atmosphere recalled a horror movie set. At any point, it seemed a knife-wielding lunatic would leap from behind some stainless-steel cabinet. None of her colleagues would be there to save her.
“Hello?” Tonya called out as she headed toward the main dining room. She pulled the mask covering her face onto her chin, allowing her voice to carry. “Hello?”
A soft thud responded, like the closing of a cabinet. It was followed by a tense silence, the kind in which the body can sense another presence but not see or hear it. Was someone quietly breaking in? Burglaries were more frequent now that many of the city stores and eateries had been boarded up.
Instinct urged Tonya to run back through the kitchen and dive into the alley. But need pushed her forward. There was no bag of money in the dumpster outside. No way to pay her rent or feed her child while Kelner took his time working out a new child support arrangement.
“Hello?” she repeated.
Heavy footsteps answered, the kind made by a man striding toward a target. Tonya clenched her fists and stood her ground near the repurposed security grates. She heard a clatter followed by the sound of things being moved around.
“Who’s there?” she yelled.
“Hello?” Her question echoed in a male baritone that Tonya was almost sure she recognized.
She walked forward to find Philip at the dining room bar. A plate sat in front of him, covered by a napkin. He poured a fancy whiskey into a shot glass. Hard alcohol before noon was never a good sign, but it could be excused with the presence of food and a splash of juice. Who didn’t enjoy a Bloody Mary with brunch? The mixers were right there on the back bar. Everything Philip needed to turn a shot into a cocktail.
Philip downed the drink without additions. Tonya took a tentative step closer. As she did, she could appreciate the gray undertone of Philip’s ivory complexion. He seemed more wan than usual, as if he’d suffered several sleepless nights. Tonya assumed her own face reflected similar exhaustion.
“Tonya. What are you doing here?” Philip asked, as if he’d caught her stealing. He rubbed a hand over his bare face. “Your shift isn’t for three hours.”
“I was hoping to speak with you, actually.”
“Oh.” Philip pulled out one of the bar stools. He gestured to it and stepped back, giving her a six-foot berth. He slid his shot glass down several feet to his new post.
Tonya took the seat. For a moment, she gazed longingly at the glasses lined up beneath the liquor bottles on the back bar. A little alcohol would make the coming conversation so much easier. But Philip wasn’t offering.
Tonya sighed. “You know it’s been difficult lately with the lack of reservations and tip—”
“I do, and I’m sorry for that, Tonya. In fact, I’d intended to call you before you came in today. You might have noticed that the kitchen staff isn’t in.”
Tonya’s nervousness solidified into an icy block.
“I have to close the dining room and furlough the waitstaff until further notice.” Philip gestured to the empty expanse surrounding them. “Unfortunately, we don’t have enough customers in the igloos to justify the expense of staying open. I know how unfair it’s been for you and the others to work a full shift with barely any tips. You all should be able to collect unemployment rather than scraping by on minimum wage.” He offered an encouraging smile. “Especially you. You’ve been with this restaurant since nearly the beginning. I appreciate your loyalty. You deserve much better than what I can provide at the moment.”
What she deserved and what she required had nothing to do with one another, Tonya wanted to say. After a decade working as a waitress and then wait captain, she knew that she merited more than a base salary that wouldn’t even have covered Manhattan studio rent a decade earlier—without adjusting for inflation. She knew waiting tables at Banque wasn’t worth it if she didn’t have tips and other perks. But she also knew that she needed money. It wasn’t as though she could walk into a vibrant neighboring kitchen with a polished résumé. Everything was closed.
“I’ll be keeping on a skeleton crew for takeout dinner service in hopes of maintaining the brand. But I can’t…” Philip grabbed for the bottle of Bushmills Black and poured another shot. “I’m so sorry.”
Tonya didn’t consider herself a crier. However, losing her job the morning after listening to Layla wail about her mother’s lies was the proverbial last straw. “I understand,” Tonya said, blinking away the tears blurring her vision.
Philip downed the shot. “Over a decade and Banque Gauche never closed. I prided myself on that. So many restaurants come and go, but our doors were always open.”
Tonya wasn’t sure whether Philip was speaking to her or to himself. His voice was low, barely above a whisper. He tapped his left ring finger against the shot glass, creating a soft pinging sound like raindrops on subway grates. “We tried, eh? Coffre was so beautiful. I really thought it was going to be a new beginning.”
He suddenly turned his attention to her, fixing her with that microwave stare—the one that could penetrate a person and grill their insides. “I’m sorry. You’d said you wanted to discuss something.”
Tonya looked up at the ceiling, not wanting to see someone like Philip, who’d probably never been behind in a payment, judge her as one of those irresponsible poor people—the kind of person who sent her kid to a ritzy school, the same one her boss’s kids attended, no less—even though she couldn’t keep a roof over her head.
“My child support hasn’t been coming for a few months, and I’m behind in the rent,” she said. “I wanted to see if I could pick up some extra work. Maybe cleaning.”
Philip’s body relaxed into a rounded shape. For a moment, Tonya thought he might cry.
The emotion passed. Her boss’s posture straightened, reassuming the gravitas that a head chef normally commanded. “I don’t want to lose a good worker who’s been with us for so long. Give me a couple days, okay? I’ll see what I can do.”
If she wanted to keep her home, she needed more than a casual promise from Philip to perhaps keep her on staff. She’d need to make sure that she had a job—no matter what.
Tonya offered a pained smile and brushed a tear from the corner of her eye, drawing attention to what she knew was her best feature. “Thank you.” She moved toward Philip, reducing the social distance between them, drawing close enough for him to appreciate her lineless skin and shiny hair. He was handsome enough, she told herself. Successful. Hardworking. Kinder than Nate, certainly.
Tonya tilted up her chin and looked as expectant as possible. She’d done this move for directors, her Sleeping-Beauty-awaiting-a-kiss impression. “I would really appreciate it,” she cooed.
Philip seemed to get the hint. He bit his bottom lip, as if considering how to obtain more clarification, and then glanced at the bar. Maybe she would finally get that shot, she thought. She’d need it.
“What are you drink—”
Before she could finish her question, a harsh ring erupted from her coat pocket. She silenced it almost immediately, but the noise had already done its damage. When she looked up at Philip again, it was clear that any moment between them had passed. Her boss was back to frowning at the reflection in his whiskey.
He palmed the glass and headed toward the kitchen. “I should get home,” he said. “I don’t want my wife to wake up and wonder where I ran off to. She knows I’m not working.”
Tonya tried to parse the statement as she followed him back toward the exit. Was he rejecting her or simply suggesting that now wasn’t a good time? Would he help her stay on regardless?
“Philip, I—”
“I look out for people who do good work,” he said, calling over his shoulder rather than stopping to talk. “I really will do my best.”
Philip traversed the kitchen, clearing it in seconds with his long-legged stride. Tonya heard the door open. He stood beside it, a doorman booting her from the club.
She thanked him anyway as she headed out into the cold. The door shut behind her, urging her to keep moving forward, to ignore the tears of humiliation building behind her eyes. Again, her shoes crunched on the pavement, as if someone had spread salt by the door.
Instead of examining her feet, Tonya approached the dumpster, curious as to the source of all the glass. One of the cooks might have broken something—perhaps an item more expensive than the glasses she’d destroyed.
The grit beneath her work loafers seemed to disappear as she drew closer. She could feel the regular rough texture of the road. The sound effects stopped.
Suddenly, her foot rolled atop something cylindrical. She hopped back, expecting to see a massive shard, perhaps the stem of a wineglass. Instead, inches from her shoes lay something that didn’t belong yet was immediately recognizable—at least to Tonya. A girl didn’t grow up on a farm without knowing what a spent shell looked like. And there, at her feet, lay the unmistakable copper casing of a thirty-eight-millimeter bullet.