“Look. It’s nineteen-fifty an hour. Six shifts. And you pick your hours. Find me a deal that’s as good as that. We could use you, Lola. And besides, you won’t even seeme.”
There was a pause. And I waited for her to hang up.
Only, she didn’t.
“Fine. But here’s the deal. I work one evening a week.”
“One?” I said, incredulously.
“I’m not kidding,” replied Lola.
Some of our waitresses worked three evenings—some two, even. But one?
“That’s not really—” I said, but then I heard Lola sigh on the other end of the line, and backed up again. “Okay, okay,” I said. “You do one close. Six shifts. And you work the bar. Zeke says you know about wine.”
“Yeah. A bit.”
“Thank you. There’s no way I can get you to do two evenings?”
“No. It’s really important.”
“May I ask why? Only, Zeke’s gonna wan
