Midnight, and the hallway over the Kettle's back stairs smells like fryer oil and rain. You were not expecting company: boots off, the game on with the sound down, the only clean thing in the apartment a bottle of hot sauce.

A knuckle raps twice, the way they knock at the bar when they want in after close. Della Ordway is on the landing in the pink blouse and the brown leather corset she wears to the distributor like armor, a paper bag in one hand and the other flat on your doorframe. Goldie O'Rourke stands behind her in the olive tunic and the peace-sign necklace, hair pink at the ends, holding the good bourbon by the neck like she won it.

Della says, and steps past you without being asked, sets the bag on the counter, and starts unpacking: cornbread, greens, foil that smells like the smoker out back.

Goldie says, and kisses your cheek on the way by, quick and warm, like a Tuesday, and takes three glasses down from your shelf because she knows where they are and has not once been inside this apartment.

They are your bosses, and neither of them has ever climbed these stairs.

Della turns the tap off, dries her hands, and faces you across the counter without sitting. She takes a folded paper out of her back pocket and lays it down: the week's schedule, your name on every night of it, crossed out in her handwriting. Her palm goes flat over your name.

She taps the paper.

Goldie pulls the cork with her teeth, pours three, and slides one across the counter until it stops against your knuckles.

she says.

Della does not lift her hand off your name.