Free Boulevard by Jim Grimsley Page A

getting into this, babycake.”
    â€œI like it all right,” Newell said, but he felt suddenly uncomfortable, knowing Stuart was somewhere in the dining rooms, watching all this.
    â€œHow long have you lived in town?”
    â€œI just got here a couple of weeks ago, right before I came in here the first time.”
    â€œThat’s too sweet.” Curtis’s tone offended Newell, something about it he could not place, but he showed nothing except that he was listening. “Anyway, you seem like you’re settling in all right.”
    Stuart appeared suddenly in the doorway, across from Newell, close enough to touch, and smiled in a brittle way. “You two look so comfortable together.”
    Curtis turned to face the wall, lifting a pencil. “Stuart, did you want to talk about something?”
    â€œNo, Curtis, I just wanted to find out how much you two have to talk about, you know?”
    They were staring at each other now. Curtis hadstarted to blush, and Stuart was about to start an argument. Newell figured it was a good time to leave, and so he did, with Alan waiting for him at the server’s station, complaining that there was not even a pitcher’s worth of ice in the bin, Newell needed to bring in some ice, where had he been anyway, the little nitwit?
    Stuart and Frank tipped out and left the restaurant, Stuart lingering for a while to hover over Curtis, while Newell was still eating his lunch. He felt the comfort of his day’s tip money in his pocket. Stuart kissed Curtis good-bye on the lips and left the restaurant, and Curtis hardly waited for Stuart to get out of sight before he sat down with Newell himself. He was watching Newell. Something hangdog in his air. “You doing all right, Newell?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œThings are working out pretty good for you, here.”
    â€œYeah. I like it.”
    â€œStuart likes you.”
    Newell gave him a look.
    â€œNo, I mean it. He’s fine about you. Look.” He pulled his chair closer to Newell. “You could probably be a waiter, don’t you think? Those guys pull down the real tips.”
    Newell felt something pressing on his midsection, a strange pressure that he had never felt before, a bit hard to breathe while Curtis was sitting so close, talking so low. “I’m fine with being a bus boy.”
    â€œBut you’d like to make the real money.”
    He let that go. Curtis was still watching him. After a while Newell wiped his mouth with the napkin and laid it across his plate. “I like to make money, that’s a fact.”
    â€œWell, then,” Curtis said, but he was looking down at his plate. “I’ll have to see what I can do about it.”
    â€œSee you tomorrow.”
    â€œWhy don’t you sit for a while? Talk to me.”
    â€œI have something I have to do,” Newell said.
    â€œYou sure?” Curtis asked, and there was something suddenly cool in his aspect.
    â€œYes. I have a friend coming over to my house.”
    Curtis nodded.
    â€œSee you.”
    Curtis nodded again, staring down at the table.
    Umberto had been watching the whole time, and partway through the scene brought Felix to the kitchen door to witness too.
    Newell walked out of the restaurant with a sinking feeling, already dreading the next morning. On Thursday, Curtis sent Newell home after breakfast, because things were slow, he said. Curtis was off the next day, but Stuart was working, and it was clear that Stuart had heard something. He was cold and unfriendly to Newell all day, and that coupled with Alan’s continual harangues made the hours nearly impossible to endure. The next day was Saturday, and Curtis was working though it was usually his day off, and he treated Newell distantly. But there was so much business in the restaurant, nobody had time to say very much to anybody. At the end of the day Alan leftwith the restaurant still full, Curtis interviewing people in the