He didn’t need to respond. I could see it in his face. The inspector, a complete prick in the eyes of the men who’d performed the work, was scouring the kitchen for any violations of construction code. According to Panzer, everything was in order and I had nothing to worry about. The inspector, on the other hand, had been going over their work with a fine-toothed comb for at least an hour. I couldn’t believe he didn’t have better things to do other than nit-pick the quality and accuracy of the men’s work. It was as if he were settling a vendetta.
“He’s still looking for a reason to deny it.” He balled his fists and raised them to his chest. “If that bastard doesn’t pass it, I’ll have a little one-one-one with that motherfucker in the parking lot.”
I glanced at the clock. I was supposed to open in an hour. Refusing to throw in the towel, I was ready to negotiate with the inspector myself. “Can I go in there?” I extended my right leg and twisted it back and forth. “Maybe show him some thigh?”
He chuckled. “Couldn’t hurt. I’ve done everything but beg. All I’ve got left is dragging him into the parking lot and breaking his jaw.”
Panzer was proof that people aren’t always in-line with the first impressions they make. When we met, I was convinced he was an arrogant asshole who had a crush on me. I came to realize he was nothing more than a man who was confident in his own skin, and that he thought I was a beautiful woman. He wasn’t afraid to tell me I was beautiful, nor was he opposed to making something else clear.
Beyond the declaration of my beauty, he wasn’t attracted to me. According to him, it was merely an observation. He said I was fun to be around because I didn’t know I was pretty. Although I initially expected Brisco would become a big brother figure to me, I now believed Panzer was taking on that role.
While I mentally prepared to sweet-talk the inspector into signing the inspection card, the cowbell clanged.
Wearing his normal attire of jeans, his leather kutte, a wifebeater, and boots, Price barged in. A folded bandana tied across his forehead topped off his outfit for the day. He looked like a complete hoodlum.
He pulled off his sunglasses. “Asshole sign off on it, yet?”
“Not yet,” Panzer said.
“I’m going to see if I can sweet talk him.” I patted my thighs. “Show him some leg.”
“You won’t be showing him a goddamned thing,” Price snarled. “I’ll go have a talk with that prick.”
Panzer’s brows knitted together. “Wouldn’t be a good idea for you to go in there.”
“Why not?”
“You’re not a licensed contractor,” Panzer said. “He’s not going to listen to you.”
“Wanna fucking bet?” Price pushed his way between us and paused. He kissed me. “Watch this.”
He stormed into the kitchen. Panzer and I snuck past the bar and took positions on either side of the door, hoping to hear what was said. Muffled voices raised and lowered. The sound of water being turned on and off followed. Elevated voices. Then, nothing.
The kitchen door swung open so hard it hit the wall with a thwack! “Cocksucker,” Price muttered under his breath. He gazed into the seating area and noticed we weren’t there. He glanced over each shoulder. Upon seeing us, he put his hands on his hips and glared. “What the fuck are you two idiots doing?”
“We were trying to hear what you were saying,” I whispered.
“Man’s a prick,” Price said. “Said if I didn’t leave him alone, he was going to call the cops. Said I didn’t have the right to be talking to him because I wasn’t a card-carrying licensed contractor.”
Panzer walked to the beer tap and leaned against the bar. “What’d I tell you?”
“Fuck that asshole,” Price said. He glared at the kitchen door. “He ought to at least listen to what I have to say.”
“So far, the asshole hasn’t listened to anything,” Panzer said. “At least not what I’ve had to say.”
The way things were going, I had my doubts I’d ever have a working kitchen. “I’m going in there,” I declared. “Worst thing he can do is tell me the same thing he told you.”
With some reservation, I headed toward the kitchen. After drawing a breath of courage, I pushed the door open and walked inside.
A balding man who appeared to be in his mid-forties, the inspector was wearing khaki-colored slacks and an off-white short-sleeved button-down dress shirt. Two sizes smaller than it needed to be to cover his distended belly, it was half untucked from being stretched to the point of failure. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and his shoes were hideously scuffed.
By my guess he was divorced and spending half his income on child support. Angry at the world for his miserable existence, he loomed over the contractors with the authoritative clipboard he carried tucked under his arm.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
He glanced up and then did a double take. “Not bad.” He scanned me from my ankles to my ass. “Who might you be?”
“Owner, operator.” I smiled innocently. “Is there anything I can do to help expedite this process? Sorry, I’m just excited to have food as an option.”
Clutching his clipboard like he was protecting the Nation’s nuclear launch codes, he peered at a section of shiny new ductwork. “You want my advice?”
My morning’s elation had turned to frustration. The men had put countless hours of hard work into the kitchen, and it showed. It looked like brand new and I was beyond excited to put it to use. Whatever advice he could give to speed up the process would be greatly appreciated.
I nodded eagerly. “Absolutely.”
“Hire a real contractor next time.”
My face flashed hot. How dare he take a holier than thou position and degrade the men who worked so hard to complete the project. The men were licensed, bonded, and insured. Many of them worked for large contracting companies during the day and moonlighted at night.
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me?’
He waved his hand in every direction. “They don’t know shit about construction.”
“Aren’t the rules and regulations pretty straightforward?” I asked.
He scoffed. “They sure are. It’s no surprise these thugs you hired can’t follow them.”
I cocked my head and gave him a look of bewilderment. “Thugs?”
“Bikers. Thugs. Criminals. One in the same.”
My blood began to boil. His reluctance to sign off on the work became clear. If the buck stopped with him, I needed to figure out a way to beat him at his own game. “Yeah,” I said, looking around the room aimlessly. “You never know with contractors what you’re going to get.”
He laughed. “I’ll give you a hint for next time. Pretty good clue when they’ve got a tattoo on their neck that they’re a half-wit.”
I pulled my phone from my back pocket. “Mind if I take a few pictures?”
“Suit yourself,” he said.
I acted like I was taking pictures. Instead, I activated the voice recorder. I slipped my phone into my pocket upside down, leaving the microphone exposed.
“You’re telling me if a guy is covered in tattoos that I shouldn’t hire him?” I asked.
Scouring the room for deficiencies, he gave a nod. “That’s right.”
“No way a guy like that can actually know what he’s doing?”
“That’s right.”
“Guys without tattoos are fine?”
He nodded toward the front of the building. “Unless he’s riding one of those ratty choppers like what’s been in parked in your parking lot for the past few weeks. The plumber was riding one, HVAC guy was riding one, the electrician was riding one. Looked like a gang hangout when I pulled in here last week for the underground inspection.”
Although I was ready to kick him in his nuts, I acted oblivious to his remarks. “Bikers don’t make good contractors, either?”
“Not in my book.” He lowered his clipboard and looked at me. “What’d they do, give you a bargain on the work? T
rade it for free beer?”
“No,” I said. “They were nice enough to donate their time.”
He choked on a laugh. “You get what you pay for.”
Panzer had explained the kitchen’s deficiencies to me at great length. He also took the time to describe what was being done to resolve them. The knowledge didn’t make me a contractor, but I wasn’t a complete idiot about what had been done, either.
“My understanding is that the ductwork was undersized, the sink’s drainpipes were too short, and the exhaust hood wasn’t big enough to serve the cooktop. Then, there were a few outlets that weren’t the safety type suitable for a kitchen.” I glanced around the room. “We’ve got a new cooktop, new oven, properly sized hood, new exhaust fan, all new sinks and plumbing, and all new outlets. The work either complies with code, or it doesn’t.” I looked at him. “Right?”
He glared for a lingering moment. “Listen, Missy. I’m in charge, understand? Not you. Not those bikers you hired. Me. If I don’t trust the man doing the work, getting my signature doesn’t come easily, and I don’t trust gangbangers.”
I had him right where I wanted him. “Oh, I see,” I said, putting on my dumbass face. “If you don’t like the guy doing the work, he’s screwed whether the work meets code or not. Right?”
“That’s right.” He moved his clipboard to his other hand. “I’ve got a few contractors I can suggest that’ll clean up this mess. It’ll cost you, though.”
I shrugged one shoulder. “That’s okay.”
I stopped my phone from recording. I rewound it to a random spot with the tip of my finger. Wearing a grin of accomplishment, I turned up the volume and pressed play.
“…either complies with code, or it doesn’t. Right? Listen, Missy. I’m in charge, understand? Not you. Not those bikers you hired. Me. If I don’t like the man doing the work, getting my signature doesn’t come easily, and I don’t trust gangbangers.”
I stopped the recording. “If this work complies with code, I suggest you pass it. If not, I’m taking the afternoon off and going to city hall with this recording. I wonder how the city manager would feel about one of his employees expressing racist views, suggesting bribery, and hinting at what might even be perceived as extortion?”
He eyes narrowed. “Fucking bitch.”
“That’s right,” I said. “A fucking bitch whose boyfriend is that mean-looking biker wearing the bandana. The thug. Remember?”
He glared.
I tilted my head toward the door. “I’ll be in there whenever you’re done.”
I flashed a smile and walked away. Proud of what I’d done, I sauntered to where Price and Panzer stood.
“How’d it go?” Panzer asked.
“Pretty good,” I said. “I showed him my tits. We’ll see if that was enough.”
Price scowled. “You better not have showed him a damned thing.”
The inspector pushed the door open. He looked at Panzer. “Hey you. What’s your name?”
“Panzolini,” Panzer said.
The inspector waved his hand toward the kitchen. “Come here for a minute.”
Panzer looked at each of us, and then meandered to the kitchen. In less than five minutes he returned, holding a folded sheet of paper in his hand. The look on his face wasn’t good.
My heart sank. “Well?”
He handed me the sheet of paper and shook his head.
I unfolded it. At the bottom of the page, a box was clearly marked with a black ‘x’ beside the word PASSED. Beneath it, the form was signed and dated.
I screeched like a little girl. “OhmygodIcan’tbelievethis.”
Price snatched the paper from my hand. “He passed it?” He looked at the paper, and then at me. “What’d you say to him?”
I’d already been accused of being manipulative. If I admitted what I’d done to the inspector, it would only confirm Price’s suspicions.
“Nothing, really,” I said. “It just took him a while to finish inspecting everything. He even made a few comments about the work, and about the men who performed it.”
I was the truth. Kind of.
Panzolini beamed with pride. “No shit?”
I patted him on the shoulder. “No shit.”
Price handed me the paper and gave me a kiss. “Congratulations.”
“Now.” Panzer waved his hand toward the kitchen door. “Go make me a fucking sandwich.”
Normally, I’d knee a guy in the nuts for such a comment. Considering the circumstances, I flashed a smile and turned toward the kitchen. “Coming right up.”
20
Price
Gray shrugged apologetically. “I don’t know what else to do.” She surveyed the bar. “It won’t be that bad. It isn’t like they’re strangers. Just get Brisco to help you and it’ll be smooth sailing.”
Nearly a week had passed, but I hadn’t forgiven Brisco for what he’d done. Not completely. “If I’m doing it, I’m not working with Brisco,” I said. “Maybe Panzer or Lackey. Or Carp.”
Her eyes lit up. “So, you’ll do it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Look,” she said. “The kitchen’s done. Everyone knows it’s done. I don’t have a cook, and I’m the only bartender. It’s a beer only bar, so it’s not like you need to mix drinks. Hand them their beers, keep track of what they drink, and give Lackey the total at the end of the night.”
The MC bought beer for the fellas one night a week. Gray’s “dollar draft night” caused us to declare Thursday to be that night. I looked at the taps, glanced at the cooler, and then the sinks.
“Wash on the left, disinfect in the middle, and rise on the right,” she said. “I always rinse twice. Air dry. Towel off the water spots.”
“Panzer!” I shouted. “Come here.”
The bar was empty, but it wouldn’t be that way for long. We’d spent most of the afternoon buying food and supplies for the kitchen. In an hour it would be wall to wall ‘Eights, and I’d definitely need some help.
“She says she needs to be in the kitchen, and we need to tend bar,” I said. “You game?”
He looked around. “I’ll work the bar. You take orders from the fellas.”
I gave him a shitty look. “You want me to be a waitress?”
He nodded. “Pretty much. Call yourself a waiter. You’ll feel better about it.”
“Fuck that,” I said. “You wait tables. I’ll work the bar.”
I wasn’t interested in being a waiter or a waitress. I looked him up and down. “You want me to do the bitch work?”
“Someone’s got to.”
“Fuck that,” he said. “Get Brisco to do it.”
If Brisco helped me, we’d end up in a fist fight before the night was over. I realized I’d forgive him at some point, but it had to be on my terms and only after I had time to accept what had happened as being nothing more than a giant misunderstanding. I wasn’t there yet. I wasn’t close.
“You twat,” I said. “Fine. I’ll wait fucking tables.”
He jumped behind the bar. “Deal.”
Gray looked at each of us like we were idiots. “You’re like children arguing over the television.”
I pointed at the 3-compartment sink. “Wash on the left, disinfect in the middle, and rise twice on the right. Wipe the fuckers off with a towel after they dry.”
“I got this,” Panzer insisted.
“I need to get everything ready,” Gray said. “For tonight, we’ll have Reuben sandwiches, burgers, fries, and shrimp tacos. Tacos are three to an order. Burgers and sandwiches come with fries. Standard toppings with the burgers.”
It dawned on me that I’d also be taking food orders. Being the waitress sucked, and it hadn’t even started yet.
“What’s standard?” I asked.
“American, cheddar, swiss, or Pepper Jack cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, onions—raw or grilled, jalapenos—raw or grilled, and pickles. Bun is either toasted or not, their choice.”
It sounded simpl
e enough. “Got it.”
“Like I said, tacos are three to an order,” she said. “They’re made with fried shrimp that are tossed in a Sriracha mayo sauce, topped with a jalapeno cabbage slaw and queso fresco, and served on warm corn tortillas. They’re a little spicy, but not bad. The Reuben is a basic Reuben. Pastrami, swiss, thousand island dressing, and sauerkraut on rye. Grilled, of course.”
I looked at Panzer. “Are you listening?”
“Reubens, tacos, burgers.” He tapped his head with his index finger. “It’s all right up here.”
“We’ll be fine,” I said.
She looked at me like she wasn’t convinced. I didn’t know what else to tell her. We were grown men that were going to be waiting on other grown men. Our options were limited to three food choices and a handful of drink options.
Gray stood in wait, hoping for some kind of reassurance that everything would be alright. Panzer and I were more than capable. After being accosted by her hopeful stare for several minutes, I gave her the stink eye.
“Good luck, fellas.” She gave me a kiss and turned away. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Panzer pulled the beer tap. A few ounces ran into the drain pan. “This is going to be a breeze.”
“My thought, exactly,” I said. “She was acting like we were a couple of imbeciles.”
In an hour, the men began to come in a few at a time. In and hour and a half, we were filled from wall to wall. People were screaming from every direction.
“Jukebox ate a quarter,” someone complained from the corner of the bar. “Didn’t let me pick a song.”
I was in the middle of taking an order. “It’s a fucking quarter!” I shouted over Garth Brooks’ Friends in Low Places. “Shut the fuck up about it.”
“I wanted to hear that Eric Clapton song,” he complained.
“Fucker wouldn’t have played for an hour, anyway,” I responded. “Carp put five bucks worth of quarters in it when he got here.”
I looked at Creek and Stoney. “Where were we?”
“Burger, swiss, jalapenos—but I want ‘em grilled,” Creek said. “Burger cooked medium. Tomato, lettuce, mustard. Does the mustard come in those packets or does she put it on?”
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