“Fine. Ask him what he wants.”
Hannah turned toward Caleb.
He signed a short reply.
She wrote the order on her pad.
“One ribeye, medium rare, with roasted potatoes.”
Then she looked toward Dominic.
“And for you, sir?”
He stared at her.
For several seconds, he seemed unsure whether to continue the confrontation.
Finally, he muttered:
“The porterhouse.”
She began to leave.
But Caleb gently raised his hand.
“One more thing.”
Hannah looked attentive.
Caleb reached inside his jacket.
He removed a folded document and placed it on the table.
Then he looked directly at his father.
His hands moved slowly, deliberately.
Hannah recognized the message.
And felt a sudden tightening in her chest.
Dominic looked irritated.
“What's he saying now?”
Caleb signed again.
Hannah turned toward him.
“Are you asking me to interpret?”
He nodded once.
She took a breath.
Then faced Dominic.
“Your son says he hasn't agreed to sell the community center.”
Dominic's expression changed.
Hannah glanced toward Caleb.
He continued signing.
Her eyes widened.
Then she looked back toward Dominic.
“He says the document you want him to sign already contains his signature.”
The mafia boss went still.
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Hannah swallowed.
“And he wants to know who put it there.”
Hannah finished her shift shortly after midnight.
Her hair was coming loose.
And her manager, Miriam Doyle, had already asked her twice what happened at Dominic Vale's table.
Miriam was fifty, practical, and deeply protective of her employees.
She had worked in restaurants for more than thirty years.
She knew wealthy customers could be generous.
She also knew some believed a large bill entitled them to mistreat the staff.
“What exactly did Vale say?” Miriam asked.
Hannah was changing into her jacket.
“He mocked his son.”
“I heard that part.”
“Then Caleb started signing.”
“And you understood him.”
Miriam studied her.
“Did Dominic threaten you?”
“Not directly.”
Hannah hesitated.
“But he didn't like being told he couldn't demand a translation.”
Miriam folded her arms.
“Well, he can dislike it from another restaurant if he wants.”
Miriam reached for the receipts.
“His son left something for you.”
She handed Hannah a small white envelope.
Hannah opened it.
Inside was a thank-you card.
The handwriting was careful and elegant.
Thank you for tonight. You were the first person at that table who asked me a question and waited for the answer.
Beneath it was a business card.
Founder, Vale Access Design.
An office number.
A professional email address.
And a handwritten note.
If you'd ever like coffee, I'd enjoy speaking with you again. No interpreting required.
Hannah stared at the card.
Hannah looked up.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You're thinking very loudly.”
Miriam laughed.
Outside, Chicago was cold.
The city glittered beneath the midnight sky.
Hannah walked toward the train station with the envelope tucked carefully into her coat pocket.
She lived with her father in a modest apartment in Logan Square.
Daniel Mercer was sixty-two, Deaf, and had spent most of his life working as a community educator and vocational instructor.
When Hannah was little, their home was filled with signing.
Her father signed while cooking.
Her mother signed across the kitchen when she didn't want to interrupt a telephone call.