“Finally,” D’ante groaned. He all but flung their mostly-empty glasses and completely-empty dessert plates into a bus bucket and gave the table the most desultory swipe with the rag Andy had ever seen. “I got these,” he told Andy, “if you’ll finish the sweeping. Lock the back door on your way out, would you, then come up to Scooter’s place? We got a little after-work thing, for having survived another Memorial Day without killing anyone. It’s a tradition.”
Andy tried to laugh, but he was too tired to put much energy into it. “I hope it’s a tradition that involves booze,” he told D’ante. “Lots and lots of booze.” He slumped against a table to breathe, no longer required to be alert and fresh for the customers.