“Pair of cluckberries, staring at ya!” Stilton called. “Burn some whisky and smear it with cow paste!” She slapped the ticket into the window, stabbed her pencil into her hair, and left it there. Phil, the fry cook, a rangy, scruffy mug who looked like he’d flunked out of sad clown school, slid the ticket over and peeked at it like it was his hole card in blackjack, frowned, and turned back to his grill. “Really?” asked the guy at the counter; forties, dark hair, and going round around the middle, wearing a suit that was too heavy for summer, even in San Francisco. “Is that what I ordered?”
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