Chapter 21: Jack

"You're pullin' my leg, aren't you, son?" Tom asks after I walk into the kitchen and tell him I'm the new dishwasher.

"Nope." I shrug off my leather jacket, hang it on a coat rack behind the door, and start rolling up my sleeves. "Ruth just hired me. I start now."

Tom looks skeptical. "I don't suppose you have any experience operating a commercial dishwashing station."

I laugh. "I've washed more than a few dishes in my lifetime, Tom. How hard can it be?"

He gestures to the industrial set-up in front of him. "This isn't the same as washing dishes in your kitchen sink."

I scan the washing station, which does look rather elaborate. In addition to a huge stainless steel box sitting on the counter, there are racks and tubs filled with dirty dishes, mugs, glasses, and silverware. "I'm a fast learner," I say. "Just break it all down for me."

Tom eyes me critically. "You can start by putting on one of those aprons." He points to a row of black vinyl aprons hanging from hooks on the wall. "They're waterproof. They'll keep your clothes dry, mostly."

I grab an apron and tie it on. "Okay. Show me what to do."

Tom proceeds to run me through the process. What goes where. How to clean what. He demonstrates putting a rack of dishes and bowls into the industrial dishwasher.

Casey brings in a tub of dirty dishes, which he sets on a stainless steel counter. "Chrissy told me you were the new dishwasher, but I didn't believe it. I still don't."

"Just try to keep up," Tom says as he nudges me with his elbow. "Casey will be bringing in dirty dishes as fast as you can wash them. Try not to fall behind."

"Thanks, Tom," I say as Casey walks away shaking his head. "I think I can manage."

It takes me about an hour to get the hang of the equipment. Casey keeps dumping tubs of dirty dishes on the counter. I sort and scrape and rinse everything, organizing it before the trays go into the washer.

I ignore the stares I'm getting from the two cooks—Jerome and Terry.

The two female servers keep peeking through the kitchen door at me. I guess they've never seen a former hitman washing dishes. I even catch Ruth once watching me through the kitchen order window.

At midnight, as soon as the last load of dishes is clean, I dry my hands, roll down my sleeves, and grab my jacket. I find Ruth behind the bar.

"All done for the night?" she asks, sounding very detached and matter-of-fact.

I nod. "Yeah. I guess I'll see you tomorrow at four."

"I guess so." She doesn't even make eye contact.

I stand there a full minute, hoping to get more of a reaction from her, anything, but she's busy making final drink orders. "Goodnight, Ruth. I guess I'll see you tomorrow." And I turn to walk away.

"Why did you come back, really?" she asks, practically blurting out the question.

I'd been waiting for that question all evening.

How the hell do I answer that?

Because I want you?

Because I need you?

Because I'm hoping you'll—what? Give me another chance?

In the end, I opt for honesty. "I came back here because I'm really hoping for a do-over with you."

She nods. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow then."

I've barely taken two steps before she asks, "Where are you staying?"

"I got a room at The Lone Wolf. It'll do until I find something a little more permanent."

She nods. I'm hoping she'll say more, but she doesn't. I certainly don't expect her to invite me to stay at her place. So I walk away, down the hallway and out the back door. I guess I should be grateful she's even talking to me after what I put her through.

She gave me a job—not the one I wanted, but it'll have to do for now.

* * *

The next few days pass without incident. I show up for work every day a few minutes before four, roll up my sleeves, and get to work washing dishes. Chrissy and Jess keep peeking in on me. Tom's keeping a close eye on me, and Ruth is studiously avoiding me.

Standing for eight hours, even on a padded mat, is harder than I realized. I'm used to being physically active, keeping on the move. I think I should trade my boots in for some proper industrial work shoes.

One time I glance over at the open kitchen door to find Micah staring at me. "Hey, Micah." I'm up to my elbows in hot, soapy water, so I can only nod. "How's it going?"

"Fine." He walks into the kitchen. "I had to see this with my own eyes. Word's getting around town that the big, bad mobster-killer is washing dishes at the tavern."

"Well, now I'm the big, bad dishwasher."

Shaking his head, Micah chuckles. "Seriously, I hope you know what you're doing."

"Yeah, so do I." I've been back three days now, and so far Ruth hasn't said more than a dozen words to me since that first night. Still, I've found her watching me a few times, either through the order window or through the open kitchen door. "Your sister is stubborn."

Micah laughs. "You think?"

Somehow I end up in charge of carrying the trash bags out to the dumpster behind the building. Late one night, as I'm lugging three bags out, I step out the back door to find Jess smoking a cigarette. "Hey, Jess." I set the bags on the ground beside the dumpster, then prop open the lid so I can drop them inside.

Jess drops her cigarette on the pavement and grounds out the embers with her bootheel. "So, how's it going, Jack?"

"I can't complain."

"I never figured I'd see you washing dishes for a living."

"What can I say? I need a job." Actually, I don't need a job. I've got enough money saved to last me a good long while. The rest of my life if I don't go too crazy. But what I really need is an excuse to be here every day, to see Ruth, be close to her. To breathe the same air she's breathing, and hope she—

"I live just over there," she says, nodding toward one of the apartment buildings a block over. She comes closer, stopping just inches away, and cranes her neck to meet my gaze, putting a whole lot of cleavage on display in the process. She looks up at me from beneath her long, dark lashes. "If you'd like to stop by after work, I'd love the company."

Well, this is awkward. "Jess, you're a very attractive woman—"

"But the answer's no?"

"Right. Sorry, but no." I'd clarify and say hell no, but there's no point in being rude.

Jess shrugs off my rejection like it's nothing. "I figured as much, but there's no harm in trying, right? It's not like you and Ruth are even talking to each other, let alone an item."

Biting my tongue, I slam the lid on the trash dumpster and head for the back door.

"Ruth is one lucky woman," she says as I pass by.

I glance back at Jess, but don't say anything. There's really nothing to say.