I’ll give Vincenzo half an hour to get rid of Maryanne, and ask him for an advance. While I wait, I dolly crates into the stockroom, tear them open, and put stuff on the shelves that separate it from the kitchen. Now and then I meet a chinaman cook’s helper who’s pulling stuff off shelves from the other side.

The loading dock is a good place for me to work. I can keep out of sight, and there’s no need to stand still. It’s cold, so shivering is expected. And the drop-off into the alley is convenient for throwing-up purposes. Time stutters. I stoop to get more jars of mayo from a carton, but it’s empty; they’re already on the shelf.

While I’m at the shelves, I hear a loud clunk from somewhere overhead. All work in the kitchen stops, and everybody applauds.

“What’s going on?” I ask my new pal through the shelves.

“Mr. Otellio pulling down his murphy bed,” he explains. He makes a fist with one hand, and sticks the other hand’s forefinger into it.

I nod and laugh. Shit.