“Ricki,” she said, wearily, “do you ever pray?” “Pray?” “Yeah, pray.” “Sure I do, honey. I pray all the time.” “Well, when you talk to God, does he answer?” “Absolutely.” “What does God say?” Ricki glanced around her. The bar was starting to fill up with customers waiting for the dining room to open. “Have you noticed,” she said, “that you and I are the only Mexicans in this place?” “I'm Irish and you're Italian. Ricki, be serious. What does God say?” “God says the check is in the mail,” answered Ricki, moving to the waitress station where the cocktail girl stood gargling a mouthful of orders.
