Chapter 4 - The Bill on the Table
At seven-fifteen, the dinner was finished. Emma’s eyelids were drooping, her head bobbing slightly toward her chest as the warmth of the gas braziers and the weight of the braised beef took hold of her small body. Lily was leaning against Scarlet’s shoulder, her fingers twined into the knit of her sister’s oversized cardigan.
Dennis Harrow approached the table. He carried a small leather folder on a silver tray. His face was entirely devoid of expression now—the cold, bureaucratic mask of a hospitality professional who had realized he could not win through force and had decided to use procedure instead.
"Your check, Mr. Willoughby," Dennis said, placing the tray six inches from Michael’s elbow. He did not look at the children. He looked three inches above Michael’s forehead, addressing the air behind him. "The kitchen has prepared three insulated bags with the remainder of the braised short ribs and twelve dinner rolls, as you requested. They are at the coat check."
Michael picked up the leather folder.
Inside was the itemized slip:
1x Sole Meunière (Void - Unserved) - $0.00
1x S.Pellegrino 750ml - $14.00
3x Consommé de Volaille - $78.00
3x Braised Prime Beef - $210.00
3x Egg Noodles & Potato - $54.00
3x Whole Milk - $27.00
1x Bread Service (Terrace) - $18.00
Special Kitchen Packaging Fee - $45.00
Terrace Unscheduled Seating Surcharge - $150.00
Subtotal: $596.00
Tax: $51.41
Service Charge (20%): $129.48
Total: $776.89
Michael looked at the line: Terrace Unscheduled Seating Surcharge - $150.00.
Then he looked at the line: Bread Service (Terrace) - $18.00.
He took a black Montblanc rollerball from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He did not sign the credit card slip. Instead, he turned the white paper over and wrote four lines on the back in a neat, slightly back-slanted script:
To the Board of Governors, Embarcadero Properties Trust:
Effective 8:00 AM tomorrow, the lease agreement for Suite 400 (Lucent Sky LLC) is referred to legal counsel for comprehensive audit under Section 14 (Public Accommodation & Nondiscrimination Covenants).
Dennis Harrow’s personal management bond is revoked.
Transfer the restaurant’s operational lease to the kitchen staff collective or prepare for immediate eviction proceedings.
He flipped the bill back over. In the tip line, he wrote: $5,000.00.
Beneath it, in the space for the total, he wrote: $5,776.89.
He slid the folder across the linen into Dennis Harrow’s hand.
"Mr. Harrow," Michael said, standing up.
Dennis looked down at the figure. His eyes widened at the five thousand dollars, then flicked to the back of the slip, where the neat black handwriting carried the weight of eighteen corporate board seats and forty-eight percent of the commercial real estate on the northern waterfront. His skin turned the color of damp limestone.
"Mr. Willoughby... this... this is an administrative misunderstanding—"
"You charged three starving children eighteen dollars for bread that sits in baskets until it is thrown into the compost bin behind the loading dock," Michael said. He did not speak loudly, but three tables nearby had stopped talking completely to listen. "You charged fifty dollars for cardboard boxes. And you charged one hundred and fifty dollars because their clothes did not match the upholstery on your chairs."
Dennis swallowed. "The restaurant has standards—"
"The restaurant has an expired grease-trap permit from the Department of Public Health that was granted a thirty-day extension because my office asked the city engineer for leniency last November," Michael said. "The restaurant has forty-eight days remaining on its liquor license renewal before the Board of Equalization. And as of ten seconds ago, the restaurant has a new landlord who does not like the way you talk to children."
Michael turned to the girls.
"Scarlet. Take your sister’s hand."
Emma had fallen asleep against the leather cushion. Michael leaned down, slipped his right arm under her knees and his left arm behind her small shoulders, and lifted her against his chest. Her head rolled onto the lapel of his pale gray suit, her small breath warm and smelling of butter and sourdough against his throat. The strip of silver duct tape on her shoe tapped against his forearm.
"David," Michael said to the young waiter who had brought the soup.
"Yes, Mr. Willoughby?"
"Take the bags from the coat check and bring them downstairs to the car."
May you like
"Yes, sir. Right now, sir."
Michael walked off the terrace. He did not look at the diners who were staring at him. He did not look at the assistant district attorney who tried to catch his eye with an understanding nod. He walked through the glass double doors, through the muted gold foyer of Lucent Sky, and out into the marble elevator lobby, carrying the smallest girl while Scarlet and Lily walked behind him, their tiny footsteps silent on the deep blue wool carpet.
