From the somber assemblage strode a man in a brown suit who carried a big valise in each hand. Even from a distance, Iris could tell that he was an extraordinarily handsome fellow.
The waitress hurried to the rear of the restaurant with her burden, pressed through the double-hinged door, raced past the sizzling flattop to the porcelain counter upon which were piled ninety-eight dirty dishes, and set down seven more with such speed that a porkchop bone was catapulted into the cleaning water.
The n***o dishwasher fished out the detritus, his dark hands covered with white suds. “This tired n****r got ’nough work. I ain’t washin’ no pork chop.” Indignant, he tossed the bone into the garbage.
“Sorry Sulky.” Iris turned from the dishwasher, sped back into the dining area, snatched a menu from
