20
Félix had been cut early for the night. The boss came and let him go at eight because the weather was so bad; sleet was nearly horizontal down the street in front and only two parties had been seated since seven. Félix had tried to argue because he wanted to stay long enough for his shift meal, but he couldn’t find the words to make his case. Sergei, the Russian cook, must have guessed, because he handed Félix a burger, made quickly at the back of the grill from the last bits of the lunch special, boxed up in waxed cardboard, with mashed potatoes scooped from the pot. Sergei hardly talked to anyone, but he always shared cigarettes and he was the best whistler in the kitchen, and if you guessed what song he was whistling, he would give you a nickel.
So Félix walked home at 8:15, glovel
