“I can’t let you pay for my dinner,” Ben protested, though with less vigor.
“Silly! You can take me somewhere as soon as you get your job.”
“Well, if you put it that way,” Ben agreed, falling willingly into step. “There’s a place here on the waterfront that serves good meals, but it’s not stylish.”
“All the better. Lead on, Ben.”
He took her to a small, crowded little restaurant only a block away. In the front window, a revolving spit upon which were impaled several roasting chickens, captured all eyes. Ben’s glands began to work as he watched the birds browning over the charcoal.
“Ben, how long has it been since you’ve had a real meal?” Penny asked, picking up the menu.
“Oh, a week. I’ve mostly kept going on pancakes. But it’s my own funeral. I could have had jobs of a sort if I had been willing to take them.”
Penny gave her order to the waitress, taking double what she really wanted so that her companion would not feel backward about placing a similar order. Then she said:
“Ben, you remarked awhile ago that you can’t get a newspaper job anywhere.”
“That’s true. I’m blacklisted.”