Chapter Five
Denne stepped out of Sal’s main entrance while pulling on her hooded black parka.
The shallow steps and walkway down to the curb were covered in an all-weather, royal-red felt runner, and overhead, a matching red awning with gold trim paralleled the landing strip.
The Old Hollywood, Oscars-arrival vibe was intentional, and the uniformed valet in a kiosk off to the side was part of that.
“Hey, Emilio,” she said as she went down to the kid in the box. “I need a favor.”
Marco’s nephew swung open the half door and hid his cigarette behind his back with a flush. “Whatever you want, Denne.”
As smoke came out with the words he spoke, she batted a dismissive hand. “I don’t care about that as long as it’s not weed.”
Their customers were of that generation. Getting drunk on Manhattans was fine. A joint, even though legal in New York state, was not.
“I put it away for the people. Jus’ so you knows.” With a flourish, he demonstrated how he ducked the coffin nail behind the vertical board full of keys, and then he stepped out of the heated interior. “What can I do you for?”
“Guy’s gonna come out here steaming. You’ll know who he is. I want you to send him back to get his own car from the parking lot.”
The kid went still. “Yeah, sure. You want me to go with him?”
For a split second, she eyed their resident asphalt jockey.
Marco’s nephew was six two and played offensive tackle on SUNY Caldwell’s DII football team.
More than that, as he unzipped that parka, it was clear he was prepared to handle things in ways she shouldn’t have been surprised about.
There were also going to be no questions asked.
No wonder she and her father always felt so at home here. These humans were their kind of people.
“It’s cold out here, Denne.” He nodded back at the restaurant’s entrance. “Go inside and lemme take care of this.”
“You’re the best. But I got it.” She pivoted away. Then looked at him over her shoulder. “And listen, if things are too sideways, just let it go. Bring the car to him if you have to.”
The kid frowned and reached back behind the keys. He took a deep draw on the cigarette, and exhaled off to the side like he didn’t want Denne breathing in any of the smoke.
“Nah, that ain’t how this gonna go. You want him in the parking lot on his own two feet, he’s going back to the parking lot that way.”
“When was the last raise you were given?”
“About a month ago. You take good care of the people here. I don’t need no more.”
Denne nodded with a little smile and headed back up the runner to the double glass doors. The old school gallantry was nice, and no doubt the kid assumed his uncle was the one who was going to issue the proverbial correction out back. That was more than fine with her.
As she reentered, she walked up another handful of carpeted steps and nodded at the ma?tre d’.
The older man in the double-breasted suit was Marco’s uncle, and even though he was pushing seventy, he had the whip-thin build of a smoker and the slicked-back hair of a Rat Packer from a hundred years ago.
Lotta smokers in that family. Too bad humans got cancer—and maybe she needed to talk to Emilio about that.
“You good?” the ma?tre d’ asked her.
“Never better, Cosmo.”
“That’s right.”
Glancing through the archway to the left, she got an eyeful of Marco’s girth standing over table sixteen with his hands on his hips and his feet set like he was about to take a semi to the chest at highway speeds—and win the match.
He was so broad, she couldn’t get a screenshot of the man of the hour, but she didn’t need one.
No doubt he was boiling where he sat, expecting his ass to be kissed and pissed off when that wasn’t happening.
It was entirely possible she would not be the one to “take care of this,” but rather that their chef would throw the bastard through one of the building’s side walls.
Passing through the flap door into the kitchen, she routed by the carving station. “Hey, Sandy, how we doing?”
The middle-aged woman behind the roast beef smiled. “I’m good, Denne. You good?”
“Is that a little too rare for medium?”
As Sandy grabbed a pair of reading glasses out of the pocket of her chef’s coat and carefully inspected the perfectly done hunk, Denne snagged one of the carving knives that were long as an arm and sharp as anything you could do surgery with.
“I dunno,” the woman said as she squinted at the meat. “It looks good to me—but you want me to grab another? I can talk to Chef?”
Tucking the blade into her parka, Denne leaned in, too. “Actually, my bad. The red lights always throw me. It’s perfect.”
“You sure?” Sandy’s myopic peepers strained as she looked back up. “Your eyes’re better than mine.”
“Nah, I’m sure. Sorry ’bout that.”
“Okay, Denne. Whatever you want.”
Moving fast and dodging waiters, she shot down that back hall and paused by the closed door of her office.
When she heard a murmuring voice, she guessed the young woman was on the landline and hoped like hell whoever was on the other end was talking sense to her.
In any event, the wheels were set in motion now.
No going back.
At the restaurant’s rear exit, she punched the release bar and stepped out into the swirling snow.
There were about thirty cars lined up with protractor precision by Emilio.
Lot of SUVs with high clearance for the snow buildup and four-wheel drive for the ice, and all of the vehicles had fresh flakes on their hoods and roofs from the storm.
Between one blink and the next, she returned to the woman’s memories of the ride here, and focused on the steering wheel the man had been gripping.
Of course it was a BMW.
And what do you know. The M-whatever-the-hell was parked right over there, at the end of the first row of vehicles—and there was no surprise that it had a little-dick, electric-blue-watch-me-everybody paint job.
“The man should be murdered for doing that to a car,” she muttered. “Much less all the other shit.”
Denne put her hood up and jogged through the accumulation to her own ride.
The F-250 Super Duty was a beast of a truck, and she’d had it blacked out so the thing was especially filthy from all the salt the city had put on the roads before tonight’s storm.
Then again, for what she was about to use it for, she wanted the thing to blend in with the other winter-crap’d stuff driving around.
Unlocking the front of the dually cab, she hopped up behind the wheel, took the knife out of her parka, and put the blade on the center console.
As she cranked the engine over and the thing caught like something caged and hungry, she had to smile.
She’d always loved the sound of a big block, and even though so many vehicles on the roads now were electric, there were categories in the industry that had remained gas-powered.
Big haulers and workhorses like hers were one of them.
Her parents didn’t know she had it, and not because she’d lied to them.
She just hadn’t mentioned the purchase and it had been a year since her father had been on site here at Sal’s. If they asked? She’d tell them. She didn’t have anything to hide.
Well, when it came to tonight, she was going to. But like any of this was going to matter? They probably wouldn’t even care.
As the windshield wipers swept the snow free from in front of her, she canned the air vents because they were blasting cold air and measured the Beamer.
From where she was parked, all she had to do was roll forward at an idle, so she put herself in drive and drifted out of her spot next to the dumpster. She always backed in, just in case.
Who knew that tonight’s version of JIC would involve something you cut roast beef with.
When her truck was parallel to the asshole’s coupe, she measured things and moved herself forward about three more feet.
She left the engine running, and stretched for her glove box.
Inside, there was a little remote and she pointed it at the back of the restaurant.
One click and the security cameras went dark.
Getting out, she went around and cracked open the front passenger-side door.
Then she just waited.
It didn’t take long. Then again, Marco had been a bouncer before he’d been a chef, and Emilio took every job he was ever given seriously.
The man with the jowls and the dating apps came steaming around the side of the restaurant like a bull, great puffs exploding out of his nose and wafting over his shoulders. The second he cleared the building’s corner, the blinkers of the BMW flashed.
“—fucking bitch—”
He was so busy barking curses and retribution, he didn’t notice her or the truck until he was right up in her Ford’s headlights.
His furious plodding stopped. And before he could say anything, she stepped forward into the glow because she wanted him to know who it was.
“What the fuck?” His surprise was immediately replaced by an arrogant calculation. “You have fun tonight? Was this fucking fun for you?”
He started pounding his open palm with a curled fist like he wanted to show off exactly how comfortable he was hitting a woman.
And as he continued to taunt her and smack, smack, smack at his fucking lifeline, Denne focused in on him, until all she could see was his flushed, pudgy face with its busted capillaries and bulbous nose.
She had a dim thought that if he kept eating and drinking like he did, he was going to end up dead from coronary artery disease. But that wasn’t going to be a problem for him, was it.
“I have something for you,” she said in a low voice.
“Well, I got something for you, too, bitch—”
She closed the distance between them and jabbed the kitchen knife at the same time. And she held his shocked stare as he gasped.
“Oh, sorry,” she tacked on as she cranked the blade up his internal organs. “I forgot the sir, didn’t I.”
As blood flowed onto her hand, warm and syrup-like, she smiled and flashed her fangs. “I’ll just put some respect on this… sir.”