got some things straight,” said Walters.
For a while no one said a thing. Then Wilson said, “Dimitri?”
“Yeah.”
“Your turn, man.”
“My son was just five years old when he was murdered,” said Karras. “So forgive me if I don’t have any smoking stories for
you tonight. But if I think of any, I’ll let you know.”
FIVE
FRANK FARROW TOOK the last dinner plate from a gray bus tray and used an icing wand to scrape what was left of a rich man’s lunch into the
garbage receptacle by his side. He fitted the plate onto a stack of them and set the load down into the steaming hot water
of the soak sink in front of him. He used the overhead hose to rinse off the bus tray and dropped the empty tray onto the
floor, where the boy would come and pick it up.
Farrow had dumped silverware into a plastic container called a third. He dripped liquid detergent into the third, filled the
container with hot water, and capped it tightly with a plastic lid. He shook the third vigorously for about a minute, then
drained the container of suds and rinsed it out. The silverware was clean.
Farrow grabbed the bottle of Sam Adams he had placed on the ledge over the sink. Grace, the waitress with the howitzers, had
brought the beer in to him after lunch, told him it was on her for the good job he had done “turning those dishes” during
the rush. He watched her wiggle her ass as she walked out of the dishwasher’s room, and he whistled under his breath, because
that was what she wanted him to do.
He looked into the brownish water of the sink. The plates could soak for a while. He decided to go out back and have himself
a smoke.
He snatched his cigarettes off a high shelf, took his beer, and went to the doorway leading to the kitchen. Bobby, the faggoty
young chef who called himself an artist, was boning a salmon on a wooden cutting block. He was gesturing broadly with his
hands, describing the process to an apprentice, a kid from the local college who was struggling to stay interested. The other
kitchen help, black guys from the north side of town, were walking around behind Jamie the Artist, their hands on their hips,
their white hats cool-cocked on their heads, elaborately mouthing his words in mimicry, passing each other, giving each other
skin.
Farrow stood in the doorway watching them with amusement. When Bobby looked up, Farrow said, “Dishes are soaking. I’ll be
out back, catching a weed.”
“Okay, Larry,” said Bobby with a wave of his hand.
Larry. That’s what they called Farrow in this town.
There was a small alleyway off the back of the kitchen. The owners of the hotel had erected latticework along the edge of
the alley’s red bricks. A piece of lattice above, thin with grapevine, completed the camouflage and hid the alleyway from
the guests of the hotel who liked to stroll in the adjacent courtyard.
Farrow stood out here on his breaks, smoking, peering through the gaps in the lattice, watching the guests walk in the courtyard,
silently laughing at them, thoroughly hating them. Well-to-do white people. There wasn’t anything more pathetic. Khaki pants,
Bass Weejuns, outdoor gear, sweaters tied around the neck for those days when the weather was on the warm side but “unpredictable.”
They had come down here with their spouses for an overnight at the “quaint” bed-and-breakfast. They’d go “antiquing” around
the town, have a nice dinner, wrestle for a couple of minutes in the four-poster bed, go home the next day just as sad and
unsatisfied as when they arrived. The point was, they could tell their friends they had spent a quiet weekend on the Eastern
Shore. Farrow guessed it was all about making some kind of statement.
He’d look at the husbands, stepping out of the elevator of the Royal Hotel on their way to the dining room, their hands just
touching the round backs of their shapeless, overweight wives, and he’d see boredom in their eyes,
For a while no one said a thing. Then Wilson said, “Dimitri?”
“Yeah.”
“Your turn, man.”
“My son was just five years old when he was murdered,” said Karras. “So forgive me if I don’t have any smoking stories for
you tonight. But if I think of any, I’ll let you know.”
FIVE
FRANK FARROW TOOK the last dinner plate from a gray bus tray and used an icing wand to scrape what was left of a rich man’s lunch into the
garbage receptacle by his side. He fitted the plate onto a stack of them and set the load down into the steaming hot water
of the soak sink in front of him. He used the overhead hose to rinse off the bus tray and dropped the empty tray onto the
floor, where the boy would come and pick it up.
Farrow had dumped silverware into a plastic container called a third. He dripped liquid detergent into the third, filled the
container with hot water, and capped it tightly with a plastic lid. He shook the third vigorously for about a minute, then
drained the container of suds and rinsed it out. The silverware was clean.
Farrow grabbed the bottle of Sam Adams he had placed on the ledge over the sink. Grace, the waitress with the howitzers, had
brought the beer in to him after lunch, told him it was on her for the good job he had done “turning those dishes” during
the rush. He watched her wiggle her ass as she walked out of the dishwasher’s room, and he whistled under his breath, because
that was what she wanted him to do.
He looked into the brownish water of the sink. The plates could soak for a while. He decided to go out back and have himself
a smoke.
He snatched his cigarettes off a high shelf, took his beer, and went to the doorway leading to the kitchen. Bobby, the faggoty
young chef who called himself an artist, was boning a salmon on a wooden cutting block. He was gesturing broadly with his
hands, describing the process to an apprentice, a kid from the local college who was struggling to stay interested. The other
kitchen help, black guys from the north side of town, were walking around behind Jamie the Artist, their hands on their hips,
their white hats cool-cocked on their heads, elaborately mouthing his words in mimicry, passing each other, giving each other
skin.
Farrow stood in the doorway watching them with amusement. When Bobby looked up, Farrow said, “Dishes are soaking. I’ll be
out back, catching a weed.”
“Okay, Larry,” said Bobby with a wave of his hand.
Larry. That’s what they called Farrow in this town.
There was a small alleyway off the back of the kitchen. The owners of the hotel had erected latticework along the edge of
the alley’s red bricks. A piece of lattice above, thin with grapevine, completed the camouflage and hid the alleyway from
the guests of the hotel who liked to stroll in the adjacent courtyard.
Farrow stood out here on his breaks, smoking, peering through the gaps in the lattice, watching the guests walk in the courtyard,
silently laughing at them, thoroughly hating them. Well-to-do white people. There wasn’t anything more pathetic. Khaki pants,
Bass Weejuns, outdoor gear, sweaters tied around the neck for those days when the weather was on the warm side but “unpredictable.”
They had come down here with their spouses for an overnight at the “quaint” bed-and-breakfast. They’d go “antiquing” around
the town, have a nice dinner, wrestle for a couple of minutes in the four-poster bed, go home the next day just as sad and
unsatisfied as when they arrived. The point was, they could tell their friends they had spent a quiet weekend on the Eastern
Shore. Farrow guessed it was all about making some kind of statement.
He’d look at the husbands, stepping out of the elevator of the Royal Hotel on their way to the dining room, their hands just
touching the round backs of their shapeless, overweight wives, and he’d see boredom in their eyes,
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