by Davis Bunn
It wasn’t that this work was easy, but it was defined. He had a job. He got on with it.
When he was done, he stripped off the gear, found himself a seat on the narrow patio, and ate at the wagon-wheel table with Sylvie and the others. He was one of the team. They joked with him about his choice of music. Bruno asked if he could add a couple of hip-hop numbers. Sandy asked if he knew any by David Bowie. Sylvie caught his eye twice and smiled.
The facts of his double life ate at Connor’s heart like acid.
When they finished eating, Rick asked Connor if he’d like a cup of coffee. Something in the question caused all the others to rise and reenter the restaurant, including Sylvie. When they were alone and both cradled steaming white ceramic mugs, Rick said, “Are you sure you want to be a waiter?”
Connor felt that sudden inward jerk, like a corner of his secret covering had just been pried loose. “Of course I do. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Partly,” Rick corrected. “You’re partly here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a smart guy. I think you already know.”
Connor tasted the coffee, then set it down on the wagon wheel. The sun was half-hidden behind a corona of high clouds and the air held a biting chill. That was not why he shivered, though.
Rick gave him a chance to respond, then went on, “You don’t bring enough of yourself to the table.”
Connor found himself fighting back a sudden urge to confess, to tell the headwaiter in Sylvie’s restaurant who he was, and what he faced. Instead, he clenched his teeth and swallowed it down.
Rick said, “You’re going through the motions. You’ve got all the moves and none of the heart. You do what it takes to get the job done, and then you walk away. Which is fine, long as people are only interested in hearing the specials and getting their glasses filled and having a plate set down in front of them. But if they come looking for an experience they can share in, if they want a night they’ll remember, if they want . . .”
Connor could almost see the words hanging in the air before his face. He finished the sentence in spite of himself. “The best life has to offer.”
“We represent their entry to a world beyond normal,” Rick agreed. “We put a face on their chance to escape the day-to-day.”
Connor sensed that Rick had said all he intended. He was tempted to respond by sitting there, waiting the guy out. See how long Rick would let the silence drag out. The words welled up inside him again, stronger this time. Connor said, “I’ve spent seven years becoming an expert at going through the motions.”
To his surprise, Rick seemed pleased by his response. “What, you think that somehow makes you unique?”
“I don’t . . .”
“Someday I’ll tell you about all the superficial moves I learned to make.” Rick had an ancient’s piercing gaze. “Was that true what you said, about being raised in a restaurant, your folks turning it into a battlefield?”
“Every word.”
“Did it ever occur to you that’s why you disconnect?” Rick rose from the table. “Maybe it’s time you moved beyond the past. Try for something new. That’s what brought you here, isn’t it? The chance to start over?”
Connor opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“There’s no future in repeating past mistakes.” Rick gestured for Connor to join him. “Come on. It’s opening time.”
CHAPTER 19
Connor’s new phone buzzed just as he was pouring wine for his first table. Connor almost dumped a full glass in the lady’s lap. He brought their starters, excused himself, and walked outside. The phone’s readout gave no name, and the caller had left no message. But only one person had this number. He hit redial, and Gerald answered on the first ring. “How soon can you get back to LA?”
“Tomorrow, I guess. If I have to.”
“Yes, you have to. Do I strike you as somebody who would ask such a thing because I’m curious?”
“Okay, Gerald. Fine.”
“Don’t you dare give me that tone of voice. I have been slaving away for hours. Now I positively must know where you are.”
Connor breathed the name. “Miramar.”
“That sounds vaguely familiar.”
“It’s a small town on the central coast.”
“Of course. I hear it’s quite lovely. How long is the drive?”
“I have no idea. I came up here by Greyhound bus.”
“How utterly dramatic. PR will positively die. I can see the next episode of the cable show now, an opening shot of you boarding the bus—”
“Gerald. Just. Stop.” Then Connor heard the chuckle, and realized that had been Gerald’s idea of a joke. Connor said, “I can’t shoot you. I need you too much.”
“Oh, please. You’ve got to give me my tiny shred of fun, all the trouble you’re causing.” There was the sound of typing. “The nearest airport is sixty-three miles away. How utterly primitive. All right. I’m sending a car. They’ll be there at six o’clock tomorrow morning or I will shoot somebody.”
“There’s a Motel Six at the juncture of the 101 with the Miramar highway. I’ll meet the driver out front. Have him ask for Mr. Smith.”
“A Motel Six, my, we are slumming.”
“Can I ask why I need to show up?”
“Ami has worked her magic. That’s all I’m allowed to tell you. Ta-ta, darling.”
When Connor turned around, Sylvie was standing in the restaurant’s open doorway. “Everything all right?”
Connor found himself fighting the day’s second urge to confess, this one even stronger. But there were customers to be served, and a wall of questions for which Connor had no answers. So he said, “I’m trying to cut off some loose ends.”
She nodded, as though that made perfect sense. “Where are they, these loose ends?”
“Down in Los Angeles. I need to travel there tomorrow.”
“Saturdays are often our busiest night. Can it wait?”
“No, Sylvie. I’m sorry. It can’t.”
She hesitated long enough for Connor to know the question before she asked, “Are you coming back?”
“As soon as I possibly can. I’ll try and make it back before the restaurant opens tomorrow evening.”
“It’s a long way to go for a few hours.”
“But the hours are important,” he assured her. “Vital. If I can’t make it back, I’ll phone.”
“All right, then.” A hint of that special smile returned. “I have to cut you some slack after last night.”
He did his best to return her smile, though it felt like the day’s first lie. “Thank you.”
“Only, now you owe me some serious time on the ivories.” She gestured for him to follow her back inside. “We’re talking hours.”
* * *
Porter Wright came in a little after ten that evening. The place was winding down after a typically frantic Friday. The police chief wore his tan uniform, as rumpled as the man himself. He approached Sylvie’s station, and whatever he said was enough to blanch her features ash-white. Connor tried not to stare, but he feared she was having another migraine attack.
Marcela followed him into the kitchen, where she explained, “The day you showed up, Bruno found ten kilos of coke. In a couple of our fish.”
Connor said, “Get. Out.”
“Eleven,” Bruno corrected. He hammered his cleaver through a lamb shank and buried the blade into the chopping board. “Eleven keys.”
Rick pushed through the doors and stopped by Marcela’s other side. His expression said he knew what they were discussing. Marcela went on, saying, “The detective handling narcotics is a real piece of work. I think that’s probably behind whatever just ruined the lady’s night.”
Connor asked, “Porter can’t bring the detective into line?”
“Different forces,” Rick replied. “Major crimes means the sheriff’s department becomes involved.”
Connor understood why they were h
aving this conversation. “You want me to play for her again. No problem.”
They showed genuine satisfaction. “Hold off until things settle down,” Rick said.
Marcela said, “I’ll finish your tables.”
“Thanks. Listen, I may miss tomorrow’s shift. I’m headed down to LA. I’ll try to make it back before Castaways opens, but I can’t say for certain.”
“Sylvie told us,” Rick said. “She’s arranged for an old pal to take up the slack.”
Marcela tightened the distance. “Are you coming back?”
“Absolutely,” Rick replied for Connor. “The man doesn’t get away that easy.”
Sylvie stepped through the doorway. Her features held to that uncommon tight cast. She said to Connor, “Porter wants to have a word.”
* * *
Porter Wright offered a politician’s greeting, cheery and loud enough to be heard by anybody listening, which was almost everyone. “How are you settling in, Connor?”
“Pretty well, thanks.”
“Carol is still talking about you and that wine. Really made for a special night.”
Marcela stepped up beside them. “Carol can do that all by herself.”
“You got that right.” Porter’s gaze made a lie of his smile, hard and cautious. “Carol was so taken with you, she actually came up with a little gift all her very own.”
Connor sensed there were actually two conversations taking place. “Really, Chief, it isn’t necessary.”
“First of all, I’m Porter to my friends. And second, did I say she’d given me any choice in the matter?” He turned to Sylvie and asked, “Mind if I borrow the gentleman for a minute?”
“Not long, please, we’re busy.” But there was a mechanical rote to Sylvie’s words.
“I’ll cover for him,” Marcela said. She added to Connor, “See what happens when you bribe a cop?”
“Couple of minutes is all.” As Porter passed Sylvie’s station, he touched her arm and said quietly, “Remember what I said. You’re not in this alone.”
If Sylvie even heard him, she gave no sign.
Connor waited until they crossed the street, and entered an empty side lane, to ask, “What’s going on with Sylvie?”
“That business is strictly between her and me,” Porter replied, unlocking his cruiser and opening his door. “You should be thankful I’m so good at keeping secrets.”
Connor slipped into the passenger seat, fairly certain he knew what was coming down the pipe. Even so, his gut took a swooping dive when Porter said, “Carol knows. She said to tell you, she won’t be the one to let this particular cat out of the bag. But there’s something you need to see.”
Porter reached over, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out an iPad whose pink floral cover said it belonged either to his wife or daughter. “These gadgets are beyond me. But Carol said all I needed to do was turn it on and hit . . . Yeah, here we go.”
Within three seconds of the screen flashing to life, Connor knew he saw his agent’s work. On one hand, he had to admire it as a stroke of brilliance. On the other, it made him sick to his stomach to watch.
Kali Lyndon was at her styled and coiffed and manufactured best. Her rouged cheeks were adorned with tears that glistened like liquid jewels, which they were. Those tears were a special blend of glycerin and microscopic flecks of diamond dust to catch the spotlights.
She was, Connor had to admit, one stunning and alluring lady. Kali was a modern combination of inherited money, daily trainers, and cosmetic surgery. Rich, fit, and voluptuous.
Her eyes were the giveaway. They were a lovely shade of lavender gray, thanks to special tinted lenses. But there was nothing all the specialists and handlers could do about the empty space down deep. Connor stared into that beautiful face and thought of Rick’s words out by the wagon-wheel table. He wondered if his own eyes held any more life or heat than Kali’s.
Peyton Stein, the cable lollipop, said, “Kali, you’ve just received word that Connor Larkin has run away from the marriage. How does that make you feel?”
Kali’s response was interrupted twice for practiced sobs. When the camera shifted on the second to show Peyton offering a tissue and a sympathetic look, Connor chuckled.
Preston said, “Your fiancée is working on a broken heart and you’re laughing?”
Connor replied, “There’s no way Kali could have gotten through that much dialogue in one take.”
“Wait, you mean this was rehearsed?”
“And still she missed her cue. So they cut over to Peyton. It gives them the chance to keep what she got right and reshoot the rest.”
“Man, that is just cold.”
“You have no idea.”
Kali was saying, “I know if I could just have ten minutes with Connor, even five, I could change his heart.”
Peyton said, “You mean, change his mind, don’t you, Kali?”
“His heart has to rule this decision,” Kali replied. “No matter how afraid he might be, if he truly loves me . . .”
“And if he doesn’t, Kali?”
“He loves me.”
“But what can you do? Connor Larkin has run away.”
Porter said, “Here’s what Carol wanted you to see.”
Kali said, “I’m offering a hundred-thousand-dollar reward to anyone who helps me locate my Connor.”
They bounced that ball back and forth a couple of times. Connor thought Peyton’s shock over the reward was totally overdone, especially when they flashed a phone number at the bottom of the screen. This told anyone with half a brain that the whole deal had been set up in advance.
When the segment ended, Porter stowed the device back in the glove box. “I’d give a moth landing on a bug zapper better odds than you.”
“The wheels are grinding down in LA,” Connor replied, and gave a swift recap of what had happened earlier that day.
Porter shook his head. “Hollywood might as well be circling out there beyond Neptune.”
“A car’s picking me up at six tomorrow morning from the Motel Six.”
“Might be a good idea if you let me take you there tonight. I’ll drive you up and book the room, so there won’t be any questions from the front desk.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“You better believe you’re paying.”
Connor thought of his promise to play for Sylvie. “It could be late before I’m done here tonight.”
“No problem. I’m on duty till four.” Porter slipped a card from his pocket and passed it over. “Call me when you’re ready.”
CHAPTER 20
After closing, Connor hung around and played a few tunes. But his thoughts were two hundred and thirty miles to the south. He felt like the lyrics were just lies set to music. Finally Connor stopped playing, but remained where he was, because Sylvie moved over from the bar and settled onto the bench beside him. She sat there, staring at the empty keys where his hands had been, and asked once more, “Will I see you again?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not just going to vanish in a puff of LA haze.”
“I told you. I plan to work tomorrow’s shift. Otherwise, I’ll call.”
Sylvie responded by wrapping one arm around his waist and settling her head on his shoulder. Connor smelled a mix of fragrances in her hair, long hours and restaurant flavors and a hint of old perfume. Her warmth was as exquisite as her scent. “Have you written any songs of your own?”
“A few. But before I quit playing, I was thinking I’d like to take hits from the seventies, eighties, and nineties and rework them in a sort of signature swing.”
Swing purists loathed the very idea. The few times Connor had mentioned it, they had called him a traitor to the cause. He had not spoken of it in years.
All Sylvie said was “You should never let go of your dream.”
Connor turned to her, hoping to find some way to say how deeply those words touched him. He was met by her rich gray gaze, deep enough for him to dive
into and just keep falling.
Kissing her was the most natural thing Connor had done in a very long while.
The moment felt so right as it happened.
And so utterly, terribly wrong the instant it was over.
Connor gently pried himself off the bench. “I have to go.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Now.” He crossed the restaurant and unlocked the door. “Good night, Sylvie.”
* * *
Connor packed an overnight bag, phoned the chief, then crossed the parking lot and knocked on Estelle’s door. Soon as she appeared, he knew Estelle had not been asleep, and that he was right to come.
Connor told her, “Your daughter is one of the finest people I have ever met.”
Estelle pushed open the door. “Come in and tell me why.”
“No, Estelle.”
“Connor, please.”
“No!” His pent-up frustration pushed her back a step. “Estelle, you need to go to her.”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t let this chance slip away! Sylvie is going through a really rough time. She needs you!”
“I’ll only make it worse.”
Her tears forced Connor to gentle his tone. “Maybe. But you need to take that chance. For both of you.”
Estelle wiped her face. “There’s a policeman watching us.”
Connor picked up his satchel and stepped back. “Promise me you’ll speak to her.”
