"She Can't Speak Chinese!" Millionaire Laughed — Then the Black Waitress Spoke
Chapter 4
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Maya listened. A slight smile touched her face.Before she could respond, Grace's attention shifted away from Maya's expression, toward Maya's hand, toward the battered red notebook she had been carrying since she arrived at the table. A corner of its cover had bent with age. Near the bottom, almost hidden beneath Maya's thumb, two characters and two numbers had been written years ago in faded black ink: H-17.Grace went completely still. For the first time that night, the surprise on her face had nothing to do with Maya speaking Mandarin. She knew that mark. And whatever H-17 meant, it frightened her enough that she stopped listening to the conversation.Eleven hours earlier, Maya Brooks had been standing beneath a leaking bus shelter in Rainier Valley with $43 in her checking account and somebody else's housing problem tucked under her arm.Seattle rain fell in a steady gray curtain, tapping against the plastic roof while buses hissed through puddles along Rainier Avenue. Maya held a paper cup of coffee between both hands and watched the number seven bus approach through the mist. The red notebook was already in her bag: H-17. Its corners were worn soft, the elastic band had broken years ago, and several pages were held together with clear tape. To anyone else, it looked like something that should have been thrown away. Maya had carried it for 12 years.By 8:30, she was inside Harbor Table Community Kitchen. The place occupied the ground floor of an aging brick building between a laundromat and a discount grocery store. It was nothing like Harbor & Pine: no chandeliers, no waterfront view, no polished wine glasses catching warm light. Here, fluorescent bulbs hummed over folding tables. A commercial coffee maker rattled near the wall. The air smelled of onions, toast, detergent, and the vegetable soup already simmering in two enormous steel pots for lunch.Maya loved the place."Thought you had the restaurant today." Walter Green looked up from behind the intake desk. At 68, Walter had the broad shoulders of a man who had spent decades lifting boxes and the patient eyes of someone who had spent even longer listening to people explain why they were afraid."My shift starts at 4:00," Maya said."And you thought that meant you should work here for free first?"Maya removed her wet coat. "You make it sound unreasonable when you say it like that.""It is unreasonable.""You still made me coffee."Walter pointed toward the pot. "That is not evidence of approval."Maya smiled. It was the first easy smile of her day.Then she saw Evelyn Parker.