When Vito got to work, fifteen minutes late, Henry was already there. He smiled shyly at Vito when Vito entered through the back door of the restaurant. Prep work was just beginning for dinner, and Henry was at the station next to Vito once again, a chef’s knife in his hand, mounds of onions and garlic cloves, already peeled, before him.
Where was Sammy? His sous chef had been very flaky lately, and Vito knew he was doing cocaine. He knew because Sammy had often tried to get him to have a little “toot,” as he called it, while they were working.
“C’mon, man, it makes you feel good. Gives you energy.”
Vito always turned him down. He’d seen what that white powder had done to other people in the business. It was ironic, Vito always thought, that cocaine was so popular among restaurant worke
