raided my mind. All I needed to do was keep my distance from Dillon, and hope he had resolved to do the same. Surely the last thing he wanted to do was lose his wife, and I needed to keep my sister in my life.
Chapter 11
Patrick…
I’ll Drink to That
Restaurant 901 sat directly on the corner of 9 th and L Streets, across from the site where the old convention center once stood. When I entered the restaurant, a tall unassuming man with an Italian accent welcomed me. I assumed he was the manager, and I was right. After exchanging pleasantries, I was directed to the hostesses, two African American women who stood almost equal in height.
“I have a 6 p.m. reservation,” I said, smiling.
I was hoping Chance had done something out of character and showed up ahead of me, but that was wishful thinking at its best. That warning I had given him earlier had gone in one ear and out the other. He still had a few minutes to prove me wrong.
“Patrick McKay?” she asked, crisscrossing her French manicured fingertips on the computer screen in front of her.
She was the shorter of the two hostesses. She had a welcoming smile and a friendly personality to match.
“For two?” she continued.
I nodded in agreement. She was still smiling. She instructed her counterpart to take me to Number 83.
Her counterpart grabbed the menus and instructed me to follow her. She attempted to engage me in conversation as she instructed me to follow. Eighty-three was our table location, in the back of the restaurant, about ten feet from the kitchen, which I didn’t mind since I was too occupied by the different aromas coming from that area. I suspected this was an unusually quiet night. I guess people were still satisfied just wetting their appetite with the charcoal smelling hotdogs, hamburgers, and ribs, drinking beers, and laughing with neighbors to whom they hadn’t extended a formal invite, but stopped by anyway.
“Is this your first time here?” she asked.
“No,” I lied.
Before I sat, I admired the furnishings and decorations. Three ball-shaped oriental-looking lamps hung above three bar tables directly in front of the bar. Handmade string blown-glass ornaments hung in the middle of the restaurant, separating one side of the dining room from the other. Sheer white curtains hung along the back, separating a private party area from the main dining room. That was one of two private rooms. The other sat a few feet in front of me behind the bar.
“Here you are, sir.”
She stood at the table with four black notebook-looking menus in her hand, waiting for me to sit. Since Chance hadn’t arrived, she placed two of the menus in front of the empty square-back white chair across from me, and the other two to my right.
“Enjoy,” she said, and walked away as if she knew I was watching her.
The LED backlit menu brightened my face when I finally opened it to peruse its contents. If everything on here tastes as good as those smells coming from the kitchen, I was in for a great night, I thought. My eyes ran down the left side of the menu and then up the right, and in that instant, I had decided that choosing a main course was going to be hard.
The napkins were tightly wrapped in a cone-shaped configuration and sat dead center on black, rectangular plates, which were evenly spaced on the black square table. There were no flowers or candles, or extra decorations to detract from the simplicity, just four wine glasses, and utensils. As I waited, a table of four had quickly become a table of six. A beautiful lady with a blond-colored close cut chatted and laughed hysterically. She smiled as our eyes met. I tried not to stare, but her beauty was striking.
“Can I start you off with something to drink,” the waiter asked, breaking my stare.
He was dressed in all black like the omen, black apr on included─not unlike the other waiters. He seemed overly friendly, but I welcomed his attitude. I don’t remember him
Chapter 11
Patrick…
I’ll Drink to That
Restaurant 901 sat directly on the corner of 9 th and L Streets, across from the site where the old convention center once stood. When I entered the restaurant, a tall unassuming man with an Italian accent welcomed me. I assumed he was the manager, and I was right. After exchanging pleasantries, I was directed to the hostesses, two African American women who stood almost equal in height.
“I have a 6 p.m. reservation,” I said, smiling.
I was hoping Chance had done something out of character and showed up ahead of me, but that was wishful thinking at its best. That warning I had given him earlier had gone in one ear and out the other. He still had a few minutes to prove me wrong.
“Patrick McKay?” she asked, crisscrossing her French manicured fingertips on the computer screen in front of her.
She was the shorter of the two hostesses. She had a welcoming smile and a friendly personality to match.
“For two?” she continued.
I nodded in agreement. She was still smiling. She instructed her counterpart to take me to Number 83.
Her counterpart grabbed the menus and instructed me to follow her. She attempted to engage me in conversation as she instructed me to follow. Eighty-three was our table location, in the back of the restaurant, about ten feet from the kitchen, which I didn’t mind since I was too occupied by the different aromas coming from that area. I suspected this was an unusually quiet night. I guess people were still satisfied just wetting their appetite with the charcoal smelling hotdogs, hamburgers, and ribs, drinking beers, and laughing with neighbors to whom they hadn’t extended a formal invite, but stopped by anyway.
“Is this your first time here?” she asked.
“No,” I lied.
Before I sat, I admired the furnishings and decorations. Three ball-shaped oriental-looking lamps hung above three bar tables directly in front of the bar. Handmade string blown-glass ornaments hung in the middle of the restaurant, separating one side of the dining room from the other. Sheer white curtains hung along the back, separating a private party area from the main dining room. That was one of two private rooms. The other sat a few feet in front of me behind the bar.
“Here you are, sir.”
She stood at the table with four black notebook-looking menus in her hand, waiting for me to sit. Since Chance hadn’t arrived, she placed two of the menus in front of the empty square-back white chair across from me, and the other two to my right.
“Enjoy,” she said, and walked away as if she knew I was watching her.
The LED backlit menu brightened my face when I finally opened it to peruse its contents. If everything on here tastes as good as those smells coming from the kitchen, I was in for a great night, I thought. My eyes ran down the left side of the menu and then up the right, and in that instant, I had decided that choosing a main course was going to be hard.
The napkins were tightly wrapped in a cone-shaped configuration and sat dead center on black, rectangular plates, which were evenly spaced on the black square table. There were no flowers or candles, or extra decorations to detract from the simplicity, just four wine glasses, and utensils. As I waited, a table of four had quickly become a table of six. A beautiful lady with a blond-colored close cut chatted and laughed hysterically. She smiled as our eyes met. I tried not to stare, but her beauty was striking.
“Can I start you off with something to drink,” the waiter asked, breaking my stare.
He was dressed in all black like the omen, black apr on included─not unlike the other waiters. He seemed overly friendly, but I welcomed his attitude. I don’t remember him
Similar Books
