by Davis Bunn
Connor dried the vegetables, peeled the potatoes and carrots, halved the peppers and discarded the seeds; then he trimmed the ends off the zucchini and cucumbers. He cut most of the vegetables into three-inch segments and four-sided blocks. He sliced them lengthwise, fashioning long matchsticks about an eighth of an inch thick. The red and green peppers were trimmed to make matching segments.
His hands stayed busy, which meant his mind was free to roam. He could still visualize the block of wood and the words burned into its surface. They opened the portal to all his carefully repressed memories. Connor had let go of so much from his early life. His villa in Beverly Flats was equipped with a granite and stainless-steel kitchen that had cost over a hundred thousand dollars, which he could not actually afford. Connor rarely even used the microwave. He had bought a used Bösendorfer grand piano, but then shifted it behind the plants in his glassed-in veranda, where it could be both present and hidden. Just like most everything else from his past life.
The Castaways kitchen reached a natural pause at a quarter past eight. The first tables were busy with dessert, the later arrivals had their starters and their wine, and Sandy passed around white ceramic mugs of fresh-brewed coffee and portions of a delicate pastry that contained fresh goat cheese whipped to froth and baked with tiny flakes of Spanish ham. Bruno, the assistant chef, introduced himself to Connor and asked about his family restaurant. Connor found himself trying to explain just how impossible a moment like this would have been, because his parents would have been threatening each other with dire bodily harm. No one spoke for a long moment; then Marcela chose that moment to rush into the kitchen with a new order. Sandy pointed a thumb at Connor and declared, “You want my take, he’s a keeper, this one.”
But the waitress was too busy for Sandy’s banter. “We don’t have much choice, at least for tonight. Rick has two tables just arrived, my section’s almost full, and Sylvie’s had one of her attacks.”
“No surprise, given the day she’s had,” Sandy said.
Connor asked, “Attack?”
“Migraine,” Marcela said, reading her order notes, typing furiously, and talking at the same time. “Big one.”
“And it’s all my fault,” Bruno said morosely.
“We’ve covered that ground already,” Sandy said. “So stuff it, that’s a good lad.”
Marcela said to Connor, “Any more customers show up, we’re opening your station.”
The kitchen accelerated for the second time that evening. Connor was shifted to garnishes; then he helped out wherever an extra pair of hands was required. He prepped dishes for the washer; he stirred soups; he rolled out extra bread. He shucked four dozen clams. Connor regularly made mistakes. Everything took him too long. The rest of the kitchen staff accelerated to a pace he had lost; but the others evidently saw he was trying, so they did not come down on him too harshly.
Sylvie entered the kitchen and walked over to where he scored a crosshatch pattern into six filets of sea bass, then basted the surface with a sauce of rarified butter and chicken stock and white wine, prior to them being flash baked. She said, “Sorry to drop you in the deep end, but Rick and Marcela are super busy, and we have a table of eight that just walked in.”
Connor saw how she squinted against the kitchen’s overhead lighting, but no one else said anything. Connor replied, “It’s no problem.”
“Actually, it is,” Sylvie said.
Sandy stopped preparing dough for choux pastries. “Not that Hammond git.”
“Enough of that,” Sylvie said.
“Phil Hammond’s got an assassin’s charm, I’ll give him that much, but he never leaves the hired help a brass farthing.” Sandy pounded the dough, shooting up a cloud of flour. “Great git.”
Sylvie tried her best to offer Connor a smile. “Consider this your trial by fire.”
CHAPTER 9
There were certain elements of stardom that Connor yearned for. Part of it had to do with money, of course. Connor had been broke since his first day in LA. The rise of his acting career had simply resulted in Connor digging himself farther into the debt hole. Even so, if money and fame were the only draw, Connor would be down on Rodeo Drive, enduring the final fitting of his tux and showing off smiles and excitement for the cameras.
What interested Connor most was the chance to design his role.
All supporting actors were basically there to bolster the star and propel the story. They played the foil, the love interest, the villain, the fiend, whatever. Their screen presence was dictated by the lead character. In television, where the pace was constantly frenetic, secondary characters were expected to know their lines, show up early, hit the mark, and bow out. The word that defined most of the roles Connor played was, straitjacket.
Connor heard the party of eight before he rounded the bar. Five men and two women were playing to the older man at the head of the table. Phil Hammond looked to be in his early sixties and flashed the easy smile of a man well used to center stage. He was in the middle of a story when Connor approached. The seven in supporting roles took their lead from the silver-haired guy and pretended not to notice Connor’s arrival. Connor showed them the easy smile of a journeyman actor, and waited as they laughed over a joke he had not heard. Connor kept telling himself that his job was the same as usual, play up to the star.
Phil Hammond was a carefully groomed silver fox. He wore a starched dress shirt open at the neck, gold-and-emerald cuff links, perfect tan, polished nails. He took his time studying Connor, then asked, “Do I know you?”
“It’s an honor to serve you, Mr. Hammond. Especially my first night on the job.”
“Oh, look,” the youngest member of the group said. “Fresh meat.”
Hammond smiled the young staffer into silence, then demanded, “Why isn’t my girl over here?”
“Ms. Cassick is unwell, sir. What can I bring you, gentlemen?”
“A single malt for me. Rocks.” He beamed at the group. “And more water for the horses.”
Connor laughed because it was expected of him.
Phil Hammond showed the world a regal graciousness. However, whatever lurked beneath Phil’s public mask was enough to keep the seven others fearfully attentive. When Connor brought their main courses, Phil politely asked him to bring him another steak, this one cooked as he had requested, medium rare instead of medium well. Carl made no comment as he put another filet on the grill. Sandy made do with a single muttered comment about the old git. Connor did not respond. He had worked on numerous sets where either the lead actor or the director would have left Phil Hammond in their egotistical dust.
As Connor reentered the dining room, Marcela asked him to stop by the front station when he had a moment. Connor served the plate, then stood motionless until Hammond took a bite and smiled his approval.
Rick was manning the entry when he arrived. Connor asked, “Is Sylvie okay?”
“She will be. Eventually.” Rick pointed at the ceiling. “She lives in the apartment upstairs. She’s lying down.”
Marcela joined them and scowled at Hammond’s table. “Old Phil won’t leave you a dime.”
“Sandy warned me.”
“The one nice thing about Sylvie’s migraine is she doesn’t have to pretend to enjoy old Phil’s company,” Marcela said.
Rick said, “Just because he stiffs waiters in his own restaurant doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy.” He added to Connor, “He owns a third of this place.”
Marcela said, “He’s a snake.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know, all right,” Marcela replied. “I just don’t know why I know.”
Rick asked Connor, “Does that make any sense to you?”
Connor asked, “Doesn’t Sylvie have medicine?”
“She took it hours ago,” Marcela said. “She says it masks the worst symptoms, but it doesn’t make them go away.”
Rick told Connor, “Porter Wright just called. The chief wants a late table. He asked for y
ou.”
Marcela said, “I can take him if you like.”
“No, it’s fine. I owe the guy.”
Rick said, “Porter waits until the night quiets down and his wife’s off duty.”
Marcela said, “Carol is a nurse. She’s a great lady.”
Rick said, “They usually close the place down.”
“I don’t mind staying late,” Connor said.
Marcela said to Rick, “Give the guy my best table. He’s earned it.”
* * *
Phil’s group became steadily louder as the night progressed. By the time Porter Wright arrived, their laughter and shouts punctuated the entire restaurant.
Porter wore his jacket and tie like it belonged to somebody else’s wardrobe. His wife was a sharp contrast to the Miramar cop. Carol Wright was athletic and poised and intensely handsome. Her silvery gray hair was cut to draw attention to her striking features. She wore no makeup. She and her husband stopped by one table after another, shaking hands and sharing words. Porter repeatedly frowned at the group beyond the bar. He waited until his wife was seated, then walked over.
The instant Porter appeared around the bar, Hammond went quiet. Porter leaned over, planted one hand on the back of Hammond’s chair, and spoke softly. Connor watched Phil Hammond respond with a gracious smile that was utterly at odds with the flush rising from his collar. Porter straightened, greeted several of the bar’s patrons, and rejoined his wife.
Ten minutes later, Hammond rose and walked unsteadily toward the exit. Connor stood by the front station and thanked them for coming in. Hammond cast a dark look his way, as though it was Connor’s fault that his public mask had been stripped away.
Carol Wright gave no sign that she noticed either the exchange or Hammond’s abrupt departure. She had a gentle, knowing smile that she bestowed on Connor like a gift. “Has anyone ever said you look like a movie star?”
“Not recently, Mrs. Wright. Can I tell you tonight’s specials?”
“It would be a waste of good breath. I know what I want. Porter, should we suggest this young man take our Celia on a date?”
“Over my dead body,” the chief replied.
“Our daughter is struggling to mend a broken heart,” she explained, then said to Porter, “I think a night in this young man’s company would be just what the doctor ordered.”
“If Connor comes within a hundred feet of Celia, he’ll need a doctor,” Porter assured his wife.
“But you said you liked him.”
“As a waiter, sure, I like him fine.” He said to Connor, “We’ll have the lamb.”
“An excellent choice.”
Carol said, “Let’s order some wine.”
“Can’t hurt,” Porter said. “We walked, I’m off duty, and the night is young.”
“I didn’t ask for excuses,” Carol replied. “I asked for a drink.”
Connor said, “I’d like to treat you folks to a bottle.”
Carol looked up. “This is new.”
Porter said, “Cops aren’t allowed to accept bribes.”
“You’ve been a big help,” Connor said. “I’d just like to say thanks.”
Carol stopped her husband from responding with a hand upon his wrist. “That is very nice of you. Isn’t it, Porter?”
“He’s still not getting anywhere near our daughter.”
“Oh, you. That’s very gracious, Connor. We accept.”
Rick and Marcela were rushing about, serving other late arrivals. Marcela was the first through the kitchen door. Connor told her what he intended while she punched in the order and apologized to the kitchen staff for making them stay late, as though it was her fault a table had shown up when they did. At first, she gave no sign she had heard him. Then Rick came through the doors, moving faster than Marcela. She said, “Come over here.”
“No time,” Rick said. “I’ve got—”
“So do I. And you’re going to want to make time for this.” When Rick reluctantly moved over, Marcela told Connor, “Say it again.”
“It’s no big deal. I want to buy the chief and his wife a nice bottle of wine.”
“Is that a fact?” Marcela said.
“He’s done three big favors for me.”
“Has he, now?”
“He found me a place to stay, he gave Sylvie a good word, and he got rid of Phil.”
Marcela said, “You get stiffed by your first table, and then you buy the second table a bottle of wine. Not the most profitable way to start your new job.”
Rick handed Marcela the keys without taking his eyes off Connor. “Show the new guy around.”
“Sure thing.” Marcela jangled the keys. “Come on, new guy.”
CHAPTER 10
The wall to the left of the entry, just behind the hostess station, was a glass-fronted display case for wine. Connor knew most of these bottles would be filled with colored water and resealed. The bottles on display were drawn from some of California’s most expensive vineyards, and were far too precious to be subjected to daylight. The actual cellar was located six steps down the same staircase that led up to Sylvie’s apartment. Marcela unlocked the barred entry and stood aside. “The full list is there on the table. You won’t be in here, usually, that’s Sylvie’s job. Or Rick’s. But if you do come, be sure and mark whatever you take, and the date.”
Connor nodded absently. The chamber was deceptively large, extending back under the kitchen and lined floor to ceiling with shelves. Most of the wine racks were empty. “Where is the rest?”
“This is all we have. Sylvie went broke buying the place and doing it up. Which is why she has old Phil as a partner. Most of what you see here, she bought at auction from another failed restaurant.” Marcela scanned the empty shelves. “Sylvie’s dream is to build this into something Wine Spectator would write about.”
Good wine was one of the lessons Connor had carried with him from his family’s restaurant. He could rarely afford to drink any, because he had managed to rack up an elephantine amount of personal debt. However, this was different. Tonight he was after a bottle that showed class, something the Wrights would never buy for themselves. He inspected the few shelves holding French reds, and found what he was looking for midway down the right wall. “This is perfect.”
Marcela stared at the bottle, then demanded, “What is your story?”
“I don’t . . . This is a good wine.”
“Yes, Connor. I know it’s good. At a hundred and eighty-five dollars, it better be magnificent. And that’s not what I meant.”
He hid from the intensity of her gaze by bending over the ledger and making note of what he was taking.
Marcela went on, “You’re handsome. You’re smart. Sandy says you never did time. You’re considerate. You stayed polite to old Phil even when you knew he wasn’t going to leave you a nickel.”
Connor straightened. “I thought with Phil, you know, it’s my first night—”
“We’re not talking about what I want to talk about,” Marcela snapped.
Connor did not reply.
“What are you doing here, waiting tables in Miramar?”
He faced her because he had no choice. She barred the door with a determined ire. Connor said, “Have you done time?”
“No, and that’s still not—”
“But you’ve got your own reasons, right? I mean, the things you’d just as soon not ever need to talk about. What you’ve done wrong, why you’re here.”
Marcela stared at him.
“Not all cages are made of steel,” Connor said, repeating Sandy’s words.
“So what you’re telling me is, you’re not telling me.”
“Someday. Maybe. Right now . . .” Connor wiped the dust off the bottle. “I’m just trying to get a clear handle on what I’ve lost. Maybe then . . . I don’t know.”
“Tell me,” she pressed.
If she had stayed angry with him, Connor would have probably deflected. But she was gentle now, and her dark gaze showed a ca
ring nature. Connor had always been a sucker for Latinas with flashing eyes.
He said, “There’s something about this town.”
“You’re right. There is.”
“I came here once to escape from a fairly awful weekend up in the hills. Ever since then, I kept thinking about how nice it was, how calm.... I got myself into some trouble last week, and all I could think of was, ‘If I could just get back here to Miramar, maybe I might find a way out.’ ”
Marcela’s voice gentled further. “What kind of trouble?”
He traced a guilty script on the bottle’s surface. “I finally got what I’d been chasing after.”
She held him there for a couple of beats. Long enough for Connor to know if she asked, he would answer. Even if it cost him his chance. But in the end, Marcela stepped aside. “Your table’s waiting.”
* * *
The wine was a huge success. Connor decanted the bottle at the table, explaining that it was important for an older wine to breathe in order to fully open the flavor.
Carol confessed she didn’t know a thing about French wines. Connor warned her, “I could put you to sleep with stuff that doesn’t matter nearly as much as whether you like how it tastes.”
“Go on, tell.”
“Stop me when you’ve had enough. In 1855, the French government selected sixty-three chateaux vineyards in the Bordeaux regions and gave them a special status, the Cru Classés. The very best of these are called first growths. Lafite Rothschild, Latour, Haut-Brion, and so forth. Nowadays they sell for thousands of dollars a bottle. There are fifteen second growths, fourteen third growths, ten fourths and eighteen fifths.” Connor held up the bottle. “Lynch-Bages is a fifth growth, but it’s become known as a ‘super second’ in recent years because the quality has just gone through the roof.”
Carol appeared genuinely interested. “Where did you learn about all this?”
“From my mother. She was passionate about everything that went into making a great table.”
“And your father?”
“He worried constantly about what things cost. The only thing he liked about good wine was adding it to somebody’s bill.”
