A Man to Waste Time On

by Nina Barrett

  “Sounds good.” He straightened up. “Any other excitement?”

  “Nah.” Terrance got up from his monitor. “We watched a few wanderers waiting for them to try a chip dip into someone’s basket or open bag, but everyone stayed honest today.”

  “So where was Ron, our day shift supervisor when Marcia ran into trouble at her table?” He walked away from the bank of monitors as Malina Ramos slid into the seat Terrance had vacated.

  It was automatic to watch her legs. Every male with a pulse did. The tall Philippine beauty had been a headliner at one of the properties on the Strip until a wrong turn in heels ended in a broken ankle and wrenched kneecap. When the Imperial was getting set for its re-opening, she’d come to the hiring fair asking for a desk job.

  He raised an eyebrow in inquiry looking over at his day surveillance crew.

  Roxane glanced away while Terrance put his hands on his hips and shook his head.

  “Missing in action.”

  “That Innie versus Outie thing still gets to some people, chief,” Roxane said.

  The Outies were former Outpost employees like Roxane, Ron, and the Imperial’s Chief of Security, Don Davis, who had come back to work at the Imperial while the Innies were fresh hires. Most employees of the old Outpost had accepted the fact the Imperial was doing things differently. For others like Ron, the change still grated.

  “I’m not excusing Ron, but since he managed the old Outpost. He thinks he ought to have your job, or at least Dolores’s. It bugs him big time that she went from being head of housekeeping at the Cosmopolitan to becoming assistant manager here,” Roxane said. “She’d worked her way up over there from waitressing to manning the desk on night shift to a staff position.”

  “Yeah, and like Ron was such a success,” Terrance snorted. “If he hadn’t poured free shots for everyone he knew in Vegas, maybe the Outpost wouldn’t have gone under.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s had a lot on his plate on the home front too, you know. Losing his son in the motorcycle accident, then his wife climbing back in the bottle.”

  Ron again. The matter had come to an ugly head at last month’s general staff meeting. He could have handled it better. Ron had felt singled out for criticism. Since then, he’d tried to cut him some slack out of guilt over what he was dealing with in his personal life, but apparently, that wasn’t working either. Jim McMasters didn’t like firing anyone, but it looked like it would come to that, especially with Ron’s assistant Brielle stepping up to the plate like she was, doing his job as well as her own.

  Roxane was studying him. Their eyes met.

  “Well, you gotta do what you gotta do, chief.”

  “So is he back now?”

  “Yeah.” Terrance pointed to the monitor Jacki Fisher was watching. “We picked him up a little while ago in the baccarat room chatting up players.”

  “Great.” There was a sour taste in his mouth. Baccarat drew many of their high rollers, sophisticated gamblers not generally amused by recycled stories about the glory days of the old Vegas. Ron definitely wasn’t the face the Imperial was trying to present to the public now.

  “Well, I’ll let you go. Enjoy your evening.” Terrance raised a hand and Roxane gave him a mock salute as he left.

  He checked his watch again. It was going to be tight but he thought he could do it. He skipped the elevator for the stairs.

  ****

  He took a second to compose himself, squared his shoulders, and opened the door. Behind him, the evening noise of the pedestrian mall faded. Cinna looked up from where she was clearing off a table. Magdalena waved at him as she came out of the back.

  “We’re getting ready to close. I’m sorry, Tom, but I just emptied the tea machine,” Magdalena apologized.

  He breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I can fix you up a quick pot though. It won’t take long,” she offered.

  “No, never mind, I’m fine.” He held up his hands in protest.

  Cinna hoisted her tray of dirty dishes up onto the counter. His stomach tightened. He bit his lip and resisted the impulse to play the gentleman and help her with it. Stay cool, he reminded himself. It wouldn’t help things to crowd her.

  “I was over at the Imperial today.” Cinna separated the silverware, placing it in a dish drainer. “It’s wonderful, first time I’d been inside. Your assistant Dolores took me to meet Mr. McMasters. I didn’t want to bother him, but she insisted he’d like to meet me.”

  “He’s a charmer, isn’t he?” Magdalena said. “I heard him speak once at a Downtown Business Owners’ Association meeting. He had us eating out of his hand. I understand he’s a real war hero, too. That he actually flew in the Battle of Britain.”

  “He lied about his age to get in,” Tom said. “I guess during the last years of the war, they weren’t real careful about checking birth certificates. Thank you for stopping in. We’ve distributed the samples you left.”

  “Thanks for giving us a try.” Looking up from what she was doing, Cinna smiled. A real one, not the kind she sometimes provided when her friend prodded her. He’d been in the shop often enough to know the difference.

  Point for the home team.

  “Yes, we appreciate it.” Magdalena arched her back and stretched.

  “Happy to do it. Actually, I came by to ask you ladies to dinner.”

  Cinna stopped in the act of picking up her tray again to look at him.

  “One of our dining venues is premiering a new menu tonight. They presented the dishes at our Food and Beverage Services meeting this afternoon and I’d welcome the company and input.”

  “I don’t know,” Cinna said slowly. “Mags?”

  “Not me, thanks. I want to hang around here and wait on the call from David. He’s our tea scout,” she explained. “He’s in this country now. He’s been working his way down the west coast from Vancouver and was in the Tahoe area Monday. I want to find out when he’s going to be heading our way.”

  “You have a tea scout?”

  “Right.” Magdalena found a bottle of cleaning spray and a roll of paper towels under the counter and moved over to the table area.

  “His name is David Witheroe and he’s from New Zealand. We’ve never meet in person, have we, Cinna? A friend of mine in Seattle recommended him and we got together over the Internet. He travels all over Asia sending back things for us to try. Like the goji berries from Tibet. They promote good vision, circulation, and have tons of anti-aging benefits. You may remember that tea from a week or so ago, Tom.”

  “It had that pinky tinge to it,” Cinna volunteered.

  Oh, he remembered it.

  “Anyway, he’s supposed to give me a call and firm up a time to be in Vegas. He’s pretty much of a free spirit as you can imagine. So I’m just going to hang around here and get a few things done we’ve been putting off, but you go on with Tom, Cinna,” she said as she straightened up from polishing the tabletop.

  “I don’t know.” Cinnamon took off her apron and turned toward him, her T-shirt curving nicely over her chest. “I’m not dressed to go out, Tom. I appreciate the offer, but really—”

  “You look fine.” More than fine.

  “Come on, Cinna. You deserve a night out. We both do and maybe when David lands in town I can get one myself. We’ve been slaves to the tea trade ever since we opened. And who picked up the slack after we canceled our janitorial service last month to pinch pennies?”

  “But look at me.” She plucked at her top and looked down at her bare legs in their sandals. “I’ve seen the Imperial, Tom. I’m not dressed for it.”

  “It’s the Cork and Cleaver, our casual dining restaurant. It’s situated between the pub grub fare we offer at Draughts and our white linen establishment, the Reserve. It’s just family dining.”

  “Go, go, go.” Magdalena took the apron out of her friend’s unresisting hands. “Put this man out of his misery. I’ll take my time finishing up here. David will call when he does. When was the last time you had a nigh
t out?”

  “Or you.”

  “I’ve got plans to change that. I’m a sucker for an accent.” Magdalena picked up Cinna’s tray and nudged the louvered door to the back open with a practiced swing of her hip.

  “It’s been a long day, I should probably just…” Cinnamon’s voice faltered as he covered her hand on the counter with his, caressing her warm knuckles until he reminded himself not to.

  “Should just, um…” He saw her swallow.

  “Here, girl.” Magdalena returned carrying a purse. “Here’s your bag. Now get out of here. Have a good dinner, relax for once, and tell me about the high life tomorrow. I’m just going to putter around here and wait on David’s call.”

  He straightened, held his breath, and waited as she circled the counter.

  “Well, then, I guess…it’s a go.”

  Magdalena gave them a smile and wave as he followed Cinna to the door.

  Outside the sidewalks were crowded, the heat still palpable as people made their way to the first show of the evening at the Fremont Street Experience with its two million lights. Casino and restaurant employees were busy urging handouts and coupons on passers-by. He nodded at the store on the corner, “Lotsa Slots,” as they waited for the light to change. The sign on the window read “Classic Slot Machines Available For Home Purchase—Legal in Most States!”

  “We’re a regular customer of this place,” he said.

  “Oh, Lotsa Slots. Do you use their machines?”

  “No, but the owner seems to be the only one in North Vegas with the know how to service the machines in our slots room which go down regularly. When we remodeled, Jim thought it would be fun to go with the old-fashioned, one-armed bandits. And it has been a draw. There’s no question that people enjoy them. It’s one of our busiest areas. When the blinking lights and ringing bells signal a jackpot win, one of our slots attendants comes over to take a picture. Unfortunately, they’re temperamental and break down so often we have the owner here on a regular schedule to come in for maintenance.”

  “Joe Niemeyer. He’s a customer of ours. Every Monday, I’m there with a double Darjeeling and almond biscotti for him.”

  He took her elbow as the light changed and they threaded their way across.

  “So do you do your own baking?” he asked.

  “Not any more. Thank goodness, that’s something we delegated. We found a bakery nearby to produce the recipes Magdalena and I had accumulated. The food items are pretty much a break-even category, but we figure they help bring in people making a breakfast stop. We’re still pretty much treading water right now, looking for the big sale.” Her voice trailed off as she glanced up at him nervously.

  He pretended not to notice.

  “Breaking even is a big first step. We’re looking forward to it ourselves.” He took her arm as they turned into the Imperial’s circular drive.

  Brian, the doorman, trotted back after helping an elderly couple into a cab to hold the door for them. Tom followed Cinna inside.

  Automatically, he paused to survey the lobby. Chairs at all the proper angles, carpeted areas swept, plants trimmed. Light from the mezzanine windows poured through as music played discreetly in the background. From where she was standing beside the desk, Brielle Bennett gave him a bright smile.

  He looked down to see Cinna watching him.

  “Everything pass inspection?”

  “Looks shipshape. Let’s go this way.” He took her hand and pointed past the desk and the bank of elevators.

  “As you can see, we’ve stuck to a British theme throughout the property. The Reserve, up on the penthouse level, is our gourmet dining experience in the tradition of a fine English club. It’s got a great view at night and the bookings have been steadily growing.”

  A roar of laughter came from the entrance to Draughts as they passed.

  “The pub seems popular too.”

  “Yeah, it’s taken off. Our sports book, where wagering on football, baseball, boxing, all that kind of thing, is done is over there.” He pointed to a line of bettors standing in front of a row of cashiers under a changing table of odds. Cinnamon paused in the entry to watch. The rear of the room held a tiered amphitheater where people sat or stood to watch the simulcast of a horserace in progress on a large screen. Other wide screen plasma televisions and computer terminals, leather armchairs, desks, and shelves of sporting publications were clustered around the room. He stooped down to pick up a discarded tip sheet from the floor.

  “Draughts gets a lot of business from people celebrating a win or drowning a loss. And down here is our destination.” He touched her fingers as she followed him. “The Cork and Cleaver is our adaptation of an English inn.”

  He stopped beside a podium at the entrance where the host was approaching.

  The young man smiled and bowed his head. “Mr. Marco. We’re glad you and your guest could join us tonight. This way please if you’re ready.”

  He scanned the room as Cinna followed their host. Half full, it looked as if everyone was having a good time as they perused menus, enjoyed a drink, or selected offerings from the dessert cart, but at the height of the dinner hour, business could definitely be better. He thought he recognized a man dining by himself as a local food critic from one of the Las Vegas trade papers. He crossed his fingers. The table he’d selected earlier was at the edge of the room by a gas fireplace hearth under an oil painting of a rural scene. She had a view of the room while he could focus on her.

  “Can I bring you both something from the bar, sir?”

  “Cinna, what would you like?”

  “Oh, nothing for me.” She looked up at their host, her dark blonde curls tumbling about her throat. There was a spot on her neck where he could see her pulse throbbing. If he leaned over he could kiss the warm, soft flesh there.

  “Mr. Marco?”

  “Come on, Cinna,” he urged. “Celebrate a bit.”

  “I’m so tired any alcohol will put me under the table.”

  There could be worse places.

  “Bring us what Chef poured for everyone at the staff meeting today, Cecil. It’s non-alcoholic, Cinna.”

  “The Taunton cider. Excellent choice, sir. I’ll send your waiter over with it shortly.” Bowing, the young man left them.

  He watched Cinna twist in her chair and survey the room.

  “It looks like an English inn. At least what I’d imagine one to be. I haven’t been over there to check it out myself.”

  He nodded. “That was our intent. We’re going to be trying some additions to the menu tonight. We’ve done well with the Dover sole and roast beef, but Chef has developed some new entrees.”

  She nodded, the flickering lights of the fire illuminating her face.

  “Sometimes it’s trial and error getting a business off the ground.”

  “I guess I was naïve about everything that starting a business entailed. Maybe Magdalena and I both were. I thought it was pretty much finding a place, getting the menu set up, and opening the doors. I didn’t think about things like negotiating a lease, ordering linens and cleaning supplies, getting menus and invoices printed, meeting health code regulations.” She rolled her eyes.

  He nodded. “It can be a 24/7 job.”

  “Well, things may be getting easier. One of the girls Mags used to dance with at the Silver Strike is off on maternity leave and is going to start coming in to help so we may actually get a day off now and then. Running the shop is more than brewing tea and waiting tables. There’s bookkeeping, product development, ordering, advertising that has to be taken care of.”

  He moved back as their waiter arrived with a crystal carafe and two goblets. The liquid was the color of old gold as he poured for them.

  He shook his head as the waiter produced menus.

  “We’re just going to try the Chef’s new dishes tonight.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll check with the kitchen.”

  Cinna picked up her glass as he raised his.

  �
�So what shall we drink to?” she asked.

  “How about success?” That could encompass a variety of meanings. For the past couple years, it’d had to do with building his career. Since finding Cinnamon Smith again, his priorities had shifted.

  She smiled and touched her glass to his.

  The cider was as he remembered—like a chill breeze through a ripe orchard.

  Cinna put her drink down, her cheeks flushing.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s great. Not like the stuff from the supermarket. Definitely meant for sipping slowly though. A little on the tart side.”

  He nodded, watching as she sat back and relaxed in her chair, one hand loose on the table. In the warmth from the fireplace, her eyelids drifted shut, her lashes feathered on her cheekbones. There were shadows under her eyes he usually didn’t see in the morning. It looked like she had lost weight. Maybe she and her partner both had. Starting up a business from scratch wasn’t easy in Vegas, especially for a couple of first-timers. Competition was cutthroat, even for a one-of-a-kind tea bar. If Jim McMasters were willing to give them a standing order, maybe things would ease up a little. Faint lines of fatigue webbed her eyes as her head shifted and her breathing softened. His palm itched to cover her hand with his own.

  The noise of the food cart rolling up as their waiter arrived made her start, her eyes popping open. He acted as if he hadn’t noticed.

  “Lancashire hot pot, shepherd’s pie.” The waiter arranged the dishes family-style on the table. The china was embossed with the restaurant’s intertwined C’s. “Yorkshire pudding and Scottish smoked salmon with dill. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “I think this will do. Cinna?”

  “I hope you’re hungry, Tom.” She shook her head.

  “Can I serve you?”

  “Please.” She nudged her plate forward. “Just a little of everything.”

  He discovered he did have an appetite. Across the table, it appeared Cinna was hungry too as she let him give her seconds.

  The chef came out to serve dessert personally from a heaping crystal bowl of trifle.