She scanned the boarded-up storefronts and blacked-out restaurant windows lining the street, reminding herself of how lucky she was to have a job at all. As she took in her bleak surroundings, two prospects rounded the corner. They each wore ankle-length wool coats. One’s head was exposed, revealing a sharp haircut. The man had either seen a barber despite circumstances or had a spouse skilled with clippers. Tonya hoped for the former.

She stepped out into the wind. “Ever dine in an igloo?” she shouted.

The haircut turned toward the sound of her voice. His brows scrunched in unmistakable embarrassment. He shook his head and then redirected his attention to his friend, who picked up his pace.

She was too desperate, Tonya realized. If she were auditioning for Glengarry Glen Ross, they’d cast her as sad-sack Shelley Levene rather than suave Ricky Roma. Too old to close. Too cold to close. Too female for Mamet, to be honest. It also didn’t help that half her face was covered, Tonya thought. Masks, unlike veils, did not create mystique.

A knock caught her attention. Tonya spun around to see Philip on the other side of Banque’s glass door. The color had drained from his face. He was now back to looking pale and dour, a washed-out version of the man she’d met ten years earlier with intense blue eyes, reddish brown hair, and skin flushed from heat or, after a particularly good service, a celebratory whiskey.

In the good years, Philip had often ended the nights with a shared toast. He liked Bushmills Black Bush, an Irish malt blend that he boasted spoke to his heritage and therefore calmed his blood. Once, after a particularly busy night, Philip had poured everyone a couple rounds of his favorite spirit, unintentionally encouraging a line cook to over-relax. The guy had teased that “Chef likes straight Black Bush,” a vulgar reference to the privates of Philip’s Bajan wife. For what had felt like a full minute, everyone in the kitchen had held their breath, bracing for Philip to fly into a rage that would end in the word fired.

Fortunately, their head chef had felt jovial that night. Instead of snatching the guy’s jacket and slamming him into the walk-in refrigerator—as Tonya had once seen Philip do to a mouthing-off prep cook—he’d raised a glass and said, “The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice,” a literary reference praising dark-skinned women, often slipped into rap lyrics. They’d all laughed like helium had spiked the air flooding back into their lungs, relieved that their good night would end on a high note.

To work in a restaurant was to be at the mercy of one man’s mood. Everyone knew that, from the dishwasher to the second-in-command sous-chef. Perhaps that was why Tonya found it so disconcerting to see Philip laid low. It meant that any mercy might be in short supply.