Chapter ElevenPatrick stirred the leek and potato soup at the Electric Toby Lounge where he worked evenings and weekends since changing to daytime courses. He wore a starched white apron and chef's hat, cleaned his shoes, washed his hands, and put on latex gloves. He'd trimmed his beard. Management liked him. The customers liked him, even the strange old woman who ordered half a piece of artichoke quiche, complained there were no artichokes, and tipped the kitchen staff a dollar to share between them all. He didn't storm out to the restaurant and hit her with a rubber mallet as someone suggested.
He went home to Waskatenau Close at the end of every shift.
“The Fiat's running great,” Patrick said to Astria when she called. “Good on gas, fun to drive. You did good, when you found that car.
