MORTAL COILS Read Online Free

and in the other a wedge of gooey pizza.
     
    At
this junction, the smells from the three buildings collided: rose, lavender,
freshly pulped carrots and oranges, clove cigarettes, yeast, and pepperoni.
     
    The
nexus of all these things that didn’t belong together, of course, was Ringo’s.
Pizza originally came from Naples, Italy. Bowling came from Germany or possibly
ancient Egypt. And the Colonial architecture drew much of its influence from
Renaissance style. This logically made it “All American.”
     
    They
hesitated at the double glass doors.
     
    Fiona
didn’t want to go in. More was wrong with Ringo’s than clashing styles, busing
tables, and washing dishes.
     
    Behind
them, however, was the invisible hand of Grandmother pushing them onward. Work
is the cornerstone of character, she was always telling them.
     
    They
had worked at Oakwood Apartments for Grandmother since Fiona could remember,
sweeping and polishing the miles of wood flooring. As soon as they turned
thirteen, Grandmother obtained work permits for them (Fiona suspected they were
forged) and found them jobs.
     
    Fiona
made the first move, grabbing the handle and pulling it open for Eliot.
     
    “Come
on,” she said. “It’s only a four-hour shift. We can do it.”
     
    “Yeah.”
Eliot’s face screwed into a mask of worry. “It’ll be easy.”
     
    He
moved through the doorway and Fiona stepped through with him. The
air-conditioning hit her like an arctic gale. It was always too cold in here.
She should have worn her sweater over this dress.
     
    The
day manager, Mike, stood at the host’s podium, arms crossed over his chest.
     
    “Five
minutes late,” he announced. “I’m going to dock an hour’s pay.”
     
    Eliot
started to step forward, but she bumped him—a warning to keep his mouth shut.
     
    They
weren’t late . . . even stopping for that bum, they had had fifteen minutes to
get here. The less said to Mike, however, the better. He’d start docking them
for other things they didn’t do.
     
    Mike
Poole was back in Del Sombra for the summer. He was a sophomore at Berkeley. He
might have been handsome with a shock of silky red hair, and freckled forearms,
but his eyes held all the intelligence of a bovine’s and a glimmer of cruelty.
     
    He
slipped a slender book under the podium’s calendar, but not before Fiona saw it
was Cliff’s Notes on Macbeth.
     
    She’d
read her version of the play a dozen times.2
     
    Fiona
could probably recite Macbeth to Mike if she had to and help him sound out the
big words.
     
    “So
. . . Fiona.” Mike stepped around the podium. “Think over the hostess thing? I
could train you. It’d be easy.” He smiled and that evil-cow gaze dropped and
then traced up her length with elevator eyes. “You’d be great.”
     
    Fiona
looked away, her shoulders hunched, and she felt her face heat. “Not so good
with people,” she whispered. “No. Thanks.”
     
    “That’s
part of the training,” Mike cooed.
     
    Next
to her, Eliot balled his hands into fists.
     
    Fiona
stepped in front of her brother. “It’s okay,” she said. “Busing is fine. It’s
great.”
     
    “Suit
yourself.” Mike snorted. “Someone on the night shift got sick, and they left
the party room for you.” Mike finally noticed Eliot and said, “Trash cans need
rinsing today, kid. Get to it before dishes. Make sure you use bleach.”
     
    “No
problem,” Fiona said.
     
    She
moved past Mike, and Eliot followed her into the dining room. In the back was
the separate party room, and to their left was the swinging door that led to
the kitchen.
     
    She
felt Mike’s eyes locked on her backside and revised her estimation of them:
They weren’t cow eyes. That was unfair to bovines. He had the eyes of a rat.
     
    Sunlight
flooded the dining room through picture windows. Five of the fifteen tables
already had lunchtime customers, people wearing the uniforms of wine-country
tourists: men in khaki slacks and loose silk