With a Twist

by Martin, Deirdre

  “Bonjour,” she replied, approaching him. “What can I get you?”

  “A Stella Artois would be great,” Clement replied in French.

  Stella Artois . . . she wasn’t sure what that was. “A Stella Artois?” she said to Liam uncertainly.

  Liam nodded, indicating he’d get it.

  She turned back to Mason, catching a whiff of his cologne. It was lovely. She liked a man who paid attention to his grooming.

  “You speak French?” she asked him.

  “Of course,” he replied in French. “Having worked for years in Europe, one needs to speak more than just English.” Natalie was impressed. A man fluent in French. Sophisticated.

  “May I make an observation?” Clement asked, still speaking French as Liam put the beer down in front of him.

  Natalie swallowed nervously. “Yes, as long as it’s not rude.”

  Mason laughed. “I don’t think it’s rude.”

  “All right, then.”

  He leaned in close to her. “You seem a bit too classy to be working here.”

  Natalie flushed with pleasure. This Mason Clement—he saw her. “It’s just temporary,” she murmured, “until I find a job managing a restaurant. I’m just trying to bring money in.”

  “I would think a bistro would be more your speed.”

  “I did work in a bistro,” Natalie said, almost feeling as if he might have done research on her. “In Brooklyn. But I missed living in the city, so here I am.”

  “I can certainly understand that,” Mason replied sympathetically. “New York is one of my favorite cities in the world.”

  “Have you ever been to Paris?”

  “Of course,” Mason replied, still in French, as if it were self-evident. “Another fantastic city.”

  “Yes,” Natalie replied, feeling almost giddy.

  “Tell me: Do you like to go to museums? Concerts?”

  “I love to go to museums,” Natalie replied. “And I like all different kinds of music.”

  Mason sipped his beer. “I thought you might. Perhaps sometime . . .”

  Natalie felt her face go red. “Yes?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the door swing open. It was Quinn, followed by his friends. Their eyes met, his flashing with displeasure as he and his newspaper buddies made their way to their usual booth. “I should get back to work,” said Natalie, even though she wanted to stand there and talk to Mason Clement all night.

  “I’ll probably be in tomorrow night,” he said, momentarily switching to English, raising his beer to her. “Au revoir .”

  “Yes, au revoir.”

  She felt slightly disoriented as she approached Quinn’s table, especially since the first thing he did was snigger. “Getting to be pals with Crocodile Dundee, are we?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “I’m a reporter. My life runs on curiosity, remember?”

  She shot a sideways glance at Quinn’s colleagues, who were watching this exchange avidly.

  “Why doesn’t Mason sit with you all?”

  All of them laughed, making Natalie feel stupid, which she didn’t appreciate.

  “It seems rather cruel to me,” she continued.

  “You want to know why that buttoned-down, pretentious ass doesn’t sit with us?” Quinn replied. “Because he’s our boss. And if your boss sits with you, you can’t bitch about your boss.”

  “Bitch?”

  “Complain.”

  Natalie glanced back at Mason, who was reading the paper at the bar. Her heart went out to him. Here was a group of men he worked with, and they refused to invite him to join them.

  “I think, maybe, if you give him a chance, you will find—”

  “What do you care whether he sits here with us or not?” Quinn challenged.

  Natalie shrugged. “He seems nice, is all. May I take your orders?”

  As soon as Natalie was out of earshot, the abuse started.

  “Pardon moi,” said Rodriguez, “but that sure as hell wasn’t a discussion between two friends.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Quinn maintained, irked that he had to keep his attention on his friends when really, he wanted to keep an eye on Natalie to see if she and Clement managed any more face time. He couldn’t believe she’d come to the table lobbying on the asshole’s behalf. He’d charmed her. It was unreal; or maybe not. The guy was suave and rich—just her type, probably. It made him sick.

  “How do you know Natalie anyway?” Durham asked.

  “She waitressed at this little French place in Brooklyn I go to sometimes named Vivi’s.”

  “And how the hell did you convince her to come work here?”

  “I didn’t convince her. She needed a job in the city. I helped her out.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” Shep said lasciviously.

  “I like her,” Rodriguez said carefully, “but she’s kind of aloof.”

  “She’s French, you idiot,” said Rogan. “They’re all aloof. Snobby and aloof.”

  “How the hell do you know?” Quinn asked.

  “I attended the International Crossword Puzzle Championships in Paris once,” Durham said smugly. “There was this French girl there sitting next to me. Every time I tried to talk to her during breaks, she looked at me like I was a worm.”

  “You are a worm,” said Rodriguez.

  Natalie’s not aloof, Quinn thought. Not after you get to know her. But snobby? He managed a quick look at the bar. She was talking to Clement again. Fuck. He knew he shouldn’t care; Christ knew the last thing he had time for was a relationship. But he liked Natalie. He didn’t want to see her get hurt. He’d hang out until closing time, pop back, and say hi to his folks. And then he was going to do Natalie a great, big favor.

  7

  Quinn was exhausted by the time the Hart closed for the night. He knew it was insanity to be up this late, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he spoke with Natalie.

  He slipped behind the bar, where Natalie and Liam were stacking clean glasses. Liam glanced up at him. “You’re here late,” Liam said frostily.

  Quinn fought the urge to snap, “What the hell is your problem?” Liam had always had a mountain-sized chip on his shoulder where Quinn was concerned, which baffled him. He’d never done a goddamn thing to him except try to be a big brother. Throughout their childhood, he’d tried to build him up, give him confidence. And what did Liam reward him with? Nonstop resentment. Quinn was surprised to find himself yearning for a confrontation with him. Let’s have it out once and for all. Air your grievances and get it the hell out of your system. Not my fault you chose to punch your way through life. Not my fault you had no ambition when you were a teenager, even though you’re smart as hell. Not my fault you took the easy way out. None of it is my fault.

  Quinn ignored his brother’s comment. “I need to talk to Natalie a minute.”

  “Whatever.” Liam moved down to the other end of the bar. Maybe he was just in one of his moods.

  Natalie’s face was blank as she approached Quinn. “Yes?”

  “Let’s talk over here,” Quinn said, motioning to one of the booths in the dining room, Natalie following reluctantly. She looked tired.

  “What is it?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

  “It’s about Mason Clement.”

  Natalie’s expression was guarded. “What about him?”

  “You probably think he’s nice.”

  “He is. A good tipper, too.”

  “I bet you like his accent.”

  A small, shy smile played across Natalie’s lips. “Perhaps.”

  Jesus, thought Quinn. What is it with women and foreign accents?

  “He’s fluent in French,” she added significantly.

  “Oooh, he’s fluent in French,” Quinn mocked. “He’s quite fluent in prick, too.”

  Natalie looked confused. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He’
s a prick,” said Quinn, trying to keep his vehemence in check. “He’s here to destroy the paper I work at. He’s firing people left and right. He may come off as charming, but he’s a jerk.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because every time I see you talking to him, you look like some kind of enthralled schoolgirl, and it alarms me. You’re too smart to fall for a guy like that.”

  “Perhaps he’s only a jerk at work,” Natalie murmured. “He’s quite personable when talking to me. Very witty and sophisticated.”

  Oh, and I’m not, Quinn wanted to retort. He quickly scanned her face. She wasn’t smirking. She wasn’t suppressing a teasing smile. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t trying to get his goat, the way he was always trying to get hers.

  “You can’t be a prick at work and a great guy outside the office,” Quinn insisted. “The bastard might be attractive and present an oh-so-likable face to the world, but believe me, all he gives a rat’s ass about is himself.”

  “You know him so well?” Natalie challenged.

  Quinn sighed wearily. “I’ve been in the newspaper business a long time, mademoiselle. I know his type.”

  “Would you like to know what I think?”

  Here it comes, Quinn thought. The double-barrel blast Natalie excelled at. The blast that attracted him to her against his better judgment.

  “What do you think?” Quinn replied.

  “I think you’re jealous.”

  Quinn snorted.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” Natalie soothed. “I know you’ve always been attracted to me.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Natalie huffed. “I find you amusing. That’s all.”

  “Yeah, right. You’d be furious if I stopped needling you.”

  “We were talking about Mason?” Natalie said coolly.

  “Yeah, your good buddy, Mason,” Quinn jeered. “Just watch out, okay? I’d hate to see you get hurt.” Shit, did that sound like a line of bull? No, this was definitely something one friend might say to another. Totally legit reason for bringing the subject up to her.

  “I appreciate your concern,” Natalie replied wryly, “but I’m quite a good judge of character.” She stood up. “Anything else?”

  “You seem to be fitting in really well here.”

  An odd look crossed her face, almost as if she were dismayed by his observation. “Thank you.”

  Quinn checked his watch. “It’s late. How are you getting home?”

  “Cab.”

  He was relieved. He didn’t want her on the subway at this hour. “Well, good night, then.”

  “Good night,” said Natalie as she began putting the dining room chairs up on the tables. Quinn headed toward the front door. “Have a good night, Bro,” he said to Liam.

  “Yeah, you, too,” Liam said distractedly.

  He was going to have to talk to his kid brother soon and find out what the hell was going on, since he seemed even more sullen than usual. But for now, he was content just to have spoken his piece to Natalie, even though it was clear she was somewhat taken by that Aussie poser. Jealous? Hell yeah. But he’d watch and see what happened. He wasn’t about to do anything about it. Not yet.

  The next morning, Quinn headed back to the newsroom after visiting the kid who’d been hit on his bike. He’d slipped into a coma. His parents were there, and Quinn, ever the reporter, knew it was his job to try to get some quotes from them, even though it was clear they were distraught. He always began with an apology when he approached them. “I know this is hard for you. But maybe . . .” Sometimes they wouldn’t talk, sometimes they would, especially if he could gently make them understand that the story was bigger than their grief and it was important that they spoke.

  The bastard who hit the kid wouldn’t talk to him, even though Quinn staked out his house for hours. The lawyer who’d repped the bastard wouldn’t speak to him, either. Not surprising. The injustice of it all made Quinn furious. He wanted this bastard to pay. He wanted the justice system to work. How naive.

  When he got home after leaving the Hart the night before, he tried to read, tried to watch TV, and then finally, tried to sleep. Years ago, a colleague had advised deep breathing to help him relax before sleeping. Quinn had tried it. What a joke. The only thing that ever worked for him when it came to sleep was pure exhaustion. Plus there was the little issue of Natalie and Clement keeping him awake. Just thinking about her being attracted to Clement made him clench his jaw so tight it gave him a headache. He didn’t want Clement to hurt her. Correction: he didn’t want Clement to have her.

  He couldn’t afford this kind of distraction, but he couldn’t help himself, and that bugged him. He was a man who prided himself on control.

  Durham walked into the newsroom, pausing behind Quinn to squeeze his shoulder. “How’s it goin’, pal? How’s the kid?”

  “In a coma.”

  “Jesus Christ. And the guy who hit him walked again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know, when I was growing up and my mother grounded me for something I thought was unfair and I’d protest, her standard reply was, ‘Whoever said life was fair?’ I hate that she was right.”

  Durham slurped down some coffee from a huge foam cup. “Your follow-up gonna be on the cover of the late edition?”

  “Depends what they decide at the three o’clock, doesn’t it?”

  Every day at three, the editorial staff at the Sent met to discuss what stories had been filed, what stories were still being worked on, what stories had legs.

  “I think it’ll be the cover,” said Durham.

  “Probably.”

  Durham started to walk to his own cubicle, then turned back. “Fuck, I forgot to tell you. I’ve got some info that could turn out to be something you might want to dig into.”

  Quinn’s ears pricked up. “Yeah?”

  “I was talkin’ to that guy I know down at City Hall—you know, the one I met at the Metropolitan Crossword Finals?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember how we reported the bids for development in your old neighborhood were won by Porco & Sons?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, apparently City Hall decided to give the contracts to the Shields Brothers instead.”

  “No shit.” Quinn was surprised. “They didn’t award them to the lowest bidder?”

  “Yeah. It’s very weird.”

  “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “‘ Unnamed Source.’ ”

  “Thanks a lot, you ethical bastard.”

  “Anytime.”

  Durham continued on to his own cubicle. Quinn picked up his phone, called information, and got the number for Porco & Sons. Then he dialed.

  8

  Quinn was delighted when he got through to Carmine Porco right away. He asked if Carmine would be willing to talk to him about the construction bids. Carmine was more than willing; he was dying to. Yeah, baby, Quinn thought as Carmine gave him directions to one of their construction sites and told him to meet him there in an hour. Come to Daddy. Spill it all.

  The last time Quinn had been on a construction site was the previous January, when a construction crane toppled backward into an apartment building on the Upper East Side, killing twelve people including three of the crew. Quinn broke the story that the city’s inspector hadn’t really inspected the crane as he’d claimed. As a result, the inspector was arrested the next day, and various individuals in the city’s building department found themselves under fire. It was one of the stories of which Quinn was most proud.

  Entering the site, he headed for the long, white trailer directly to his left. As promised, Carmine was waiting for him, sitting behind a desk almost as messy as Quinn’s. He looked up as Quinn slipped inside. Carmine was a hairy-knuckled mountain of a man, the kind whose mere size could intimidate. He slid out from behind the desk to shake Quinn’s hand.

  “Good to meet you,” he said. He motioned for Q
uinn to sit at a small, square table with two folding chairs. “You want anything to drink? A Coke or something?”

  “That would be great.” While Porco waddled over to the small fridge, Quinn dug into his backpack, pulling out a pen, a reporter’s notebook, and his small digital voice recorder, all of which he laid out on the table.

  Porco pointed to the recorder as he handed Quinn a can of Coke. “Do we really need that?”

  “I won’t identify who you are; don’t worry. It’s just that sometimes I can’t read my own handwriting.”

  Porco sat down opposite him.

  “Before we start,” said Quinn, “I need to ask you: Have any other reporters been sniffing around about this?”

  “Nope. Just you.”

  “Great.” That’s what he wanted to hear.

  Quinn picked up his pen. “Okay. So tell me about you guys losing the bid for all that construction that’s going on in Hell’s Kitchen to Shields Brothers. What happened?”

  “Shields donated big money to the mayor’s reelection campaign.”

  “And you guys didn’t?”

  “Oh, yeah, we made a huge donation. But Shields had a little more muscle and cash behind them.”

  “Who?”

  “You’re the reporter. Figure it out.”

  Quinn knew what that meant. “Why were you so eager to talk to me about this?”

  “Because I’m fucking pissed off, that’s why.”

  Carmine looked worriedly at Quinn’s notepad. “You’re not naming me, right?”

  “I already told you that. And there’s no article to write yet.”

  Carmine looked relieved.

  “Anything else you want to tell me?”

  Carmine scowled. “What, that’s not enough for you?”

  Quinn extended a hand. “Thanks for talking to me, Carmine.”

  “No prob. I hear anything else, I swear I’ll let you know.”

  Quinn packed up his things. He had a feeling he knew who was fronting Shields Brothers. Knowing that it was risky, possibly even fruitless, he was going to see if Liam had any info, since Liam tended to know more about what was going on in the neighborhood than he did. It was worth a shot.