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the chef moved at a brisk pace back toward the restaurant. He heard footsteps behind him, closing fast. Thinking he was about to get mugged, he broke into a trot. He crossed the street, reaching into his pants pocket as he picked up speed. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of a man running after him. He put the thin bundle of glassine bags in his mouth. The man looked like a cop, he realized; he was too heavy to be a mugger. Heart racing, the chef broke left for an abandoned lot connecting Third and Fourth streets. He saw another man coming straight at him. He considered swallowing the bags, but his mouth was too dry. He felt his knees weakening as he stumbled through the lot. Suddenly there was an arm around his neck. He felt himself thrown to the ground with somebody's weight on top of him. The arm tightened around his neck. A hand squeezed his cheeks. Yet another hand yanked his head back. Somebody was pinching his nose.
    "Spit it out! Spit it out!" somebody was yelling.
    The next thing he knew, he was being handcuffed.

Eight
    T HE LUMPY-LOOKING waitress with the nose ring (Tommy could never remember her name) picked up her appetizers and headed for the dining room. Tommy wiped the sweat out of his eyes and looked nervously at the clock.
    "Party of twelve," said Cheryl, one of the prettier waitresses. She was dark, with brown hair cut to the shoulders, large, almond-shaped eyes set wide apart, and an easy, sardonic smile. She straightened her bow tie and leaned her elbows onto the slide. "Walk-ins . . . what can I say?"
    "Fuck!" said Tommy, bony. . .
    Tommy started to say something else but Stephanie, another waitress, just as pretty as Cheryl but taller, crowded in next to her, a cigarette dangling from her lips.
    "What's going on?" she asked.
    "Could you not smoke over the fucking food—please?" said Tommy, turning his back to the two girls and giving a pan full of shrimp a shake.
    "What's his problem?" Tommy heard Stephanie say.
    "Big table of walk-ins," said Cheryl. "Your station."
    "Great. I need the money," said Stephanie, leaving her cigarette still burning on top of the stainless steel shelves, between stacks of plates. She ran up to the dining room, her Cuban heels clattering loudly on the wood steps.
    "Where's your expeditor?" said Cheryl, lowering her voice.
    "Chef's stepped out for a minute," said Tommy.
    It was after six when the chef returned. Service had started an hour earlier, and the board was filled with dinner dupes.
    "What happened to you?" said Tommy, irritably. "We're fuckin' swamped."
    The chef looked haggard and dirty. "I got robbed," he said quietly, so Ricky couldn't hear him over the exhaust fan. "Three guys got me, comin' outta the place."
    Tommy positioned a lobster claw in a big bowl of bouillabaise, then smeared rouille on two croutons and put them on opposite ends of the rim. "Cheryl! Pick up!" he yelled, putting the steaming bowl up on the shelf.
    "What did they get?" he asked the chef.
    "They got everything. They had a fuckin' box cutter at my neck. What was I gonna do?" said the chef, annoyed.
    "Bummer," said Tommy, watching Cheryl take the bouillabaise and a bowl of steamed mussels off the shelf. He took down a dupe and spiked it. "You alright?" he asked the chef
    "Yeah, yeah," said the chef, tying his apron. "Just a little freaked. I walked around a little after."
    "So they got it all," said Tommy, turning around to lift a piece of sauteed skate out of a pan. He drizzled basquaise sauce around it.
    "All of it," said the chef, stepping behind the line. "I had it and they took it. Sorry."
    Tommy wiped the rim of a plate with a kitchen towel. "Are you gonna make it through the night?"
    The chef shook his head. "No way. I'm sick already. I'll hit Harvey for an advance later and maybe hit Ninth Avenue or the Upper East after service. You wanna go again?"
    "Fuck it. I'll get drunk instead. It's free."
    "Sorry about the money," said the chef, looking pained.
    The chef took his place at