by K. K. Beck
The main parking lot was further away, a sloping oblong of weedy gravel around the corner and down the hilly block, between an alley and a boarded-up old warehouse. It was surrounded by a chain-link fence with an open, yawning gate and there were a few Dumpsters in the adjoining alley. “Here’s where we park most of the cars,” said Chip. “We can really stack ’em in here. And it’s pretty secure because we come in and out so often. This neighborhood looks really nice from the street, but these alleys and stuff back here, it’s pretty bad. If the customers had to park back here themselves and walk back to the restaurant, half of them would never make it.” He laughed, with the air of a street-wise operator. “Sometimes if things are slow we chase bums away from the Dumpsters.” Tyler made a mental note to make sure any car he parked was completely locked.
Chip pulled deftly into a tight spot between two SUVs. They got out of the car and Chip said, “Dude, we have a shortcut to get back on foot if we aren’t bringing another car back.” Tyler followed him down the alley and onto the abandoned warehouse property. There was some scruffy grass growing there, and a haphazard footpath made of boards. The path led up an incline, into a loading dock area of what appeared to be an antiques store, and then past Alba’s back kitchen entrance to the smaller parking lot with its expensive cars.
“So that’s about it. Unless we really get slammed. Then we talk to our brother valets over at the Harborview Hotel. Elite has that account, too. They’ve got five floors and they let us have a few slots on the top.” Chip, huffing and puffing a little now, said, “It’s pretty sweet. You have to hustle, sure, but the tips are really good.
“In fact,” he chuckled a little in what Tyler thought was a slightly phony way, “I have some other business interests. But the money here is so good I just can’t resist. It makes a big difference in my quality of life. Last month I took a week off, and I went to Paris, like, just on a whim.” Chip snapped his fingers to indicate the spontaneous nature of the trip. “I met this chick and just asked her to come to Paris for a week.” Chip tossed off a smug little laugh, popped up the collar of his white uniform polo shirt, and kind of adjusted his shoulders back and forth as if he were flexing the muscles there. “That got her attention.”
“That’s cool,” said Tyler in a noncommittal way, gazing away from Chip. He hoped they’d be really busy so he wouldn’t have to hear more stories about Chip’s bank account or his success with women.
“Anyway,” said Chip. “It’s a great gig.” He now assumed a thoughtful air. “You know, there’s a service-industry vibe about the valet thing that I like a lot. It’s almost like show business in a way. Like you’re part of the nightlife in this town. And, yeah, maybe it gets kinda crazy now and then, but I kind of like that challenge.”
“Right,” said Tyler, thinking that if he ever thought doing the valet thing at Chip’s age was glamorous that he’d kill himself. Business interests? Maybe Chip was skimming. Tyler decided to keep a close eye on him. If he could catch him not handing out claim checks, he could go to Jessica and suggest she should send out a secret shopper to try and nail him pocketing wads of cash. She was always under a lot of bottom-line pressure from management, and Tyler would be glad to help her out.
By now, they had arrived back at the front of the restaurant. Vic, still texting, took advantage of their presence to slide behind the wheel of a waiting Audi sedan and drove off at top speed.
“Okay, now listen up,” said Chip, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Scott Duckworth’s people called. He’s on his way. He’s part of this special private event for some of the classier people in town for the food convention. And he has very specific requirements. So when a silver SL65 V12 Biturbo Anniversary Edition pulls up, that’s him.”
“Okay,” said Tyler.
Chip looked irked that Tyler wasn’t impressed and said, “You do know who Scott Duckworth is, don’t you?”
“Oh sure,” said Tyler. “My dad used to work for him back in the day.”
“No shit,” said Chip. “Well I guess he didn’t get one of those gazillion-dollar payouts back when DuckSoft went public, or you wouldn’t be parking cars.” He laughed.
———
BEHIND the wheel of the Audi sedan, Vic Gelashvili paused at the gate to the main lot. There, standing in shadow, stood Volodya Zelenko. It was weird seeing him here instead of at Donna’s.
Leaning out the car window, Vic said, “Okay, I got your text. What’s up? Is there a problem?” What the hell was Volodya doing here?
“No problem. Not if you help me out,” said Volodya. He smiled widely, revealing gold dental work and large teeth.
Vic managed a nervous smile back. “Um, okay. What do you need?”
“I just need somewhere to put this.” He stepped aside and revealed a large black wheeled suitcase. Volodya touched the handle lightly. “Someone’s going to pick it up in about twenty minutes.”
“Well, can’t you just wait for them here with it?”
“It’s complicated,” said Volodya. “We mustn’t be seen together. The other guy and me. For our mutual protection.”
“What’s in there?” Vic asked.
“You don’t want to know nothing about it,” said Volodya in a firm but kindly way.
Vic didn’t like this. “But where do you want me to keep it?” he asked. Where was he supposed to put the damn thing? In the valet booth?
“Don’t worry about that,” said Volodya. “You’re not even going to touch it. We’ll just put it in the trunk of this Audi. Those folks just showed up for dinner, right? We’re good for at least an hour, maybe two.”
“But I’m not sure—”
“Shut up and pop trunk,” said Volodya sharply. He vanished toward the back of the car, dragging the suitcase behind him through the gravel.
Vic popped the trunk lever and heard the click and slight hydraulic puff that meant the trunk was open. Vic protested, “But how will he know which car it’s in?” He turned around in the driver’s seat and faced the rear window.
“I’ll give him the license plate number, for God’s sake,” said Volodya. “Park it as close as you can to the entrance from the street. I’ll watch where you park it.” The trunk lid now obscured the rear window.
“But if one of the other valets is around when this guy comes to pick it up—”
“No worries,” said Volodya. “No worries at all. This guy will be in and out so fast, no one will ever know. We’ll leave the trunk unlocked. Closed but not totally.”
“But—”
“Just fucking do it!” said Volodya, who by now was speaking in a breathless way that indicated physical exertion. Vic heard a thump and felt the car shudder a little, and then heard Volodya let out a relieved sigh. Whatever was in there, thought Vic, was pretty heavy.
Chapter Three
ROGER BENSON WAS HAVING a lot of trouble with his website. The fonts kept morphing into other weird fonts. And there was something he was supposed to do to attract more hits. Tag the thing so searches would take people there. He sighed. It was pathetic, his having to build his own site like this.
Roger was a fit and tanned fifty-seven-year-old with thinning silver hair and a small matching goatee. He wore a diamond stud in one ear.
He sipped his white wine and stared in frustration at the screen. Then he jabbed at a few function keys on the top of the keyboard. He remembered the old days before the invention of the mouse. Everything was probably still programmed into function keys. An ominous error message appeared with a big red X on it. He didn’t have his reading glasses on, so he couldn’t read the tiny letters and he didn’t want to anyway. This sucked.
Roger would simply have to appeal to his son. Surely Tyler could help him get this site launched. The whole family should be pulling together at a time like this.
———
TYLER was driving down to the parking lot when his phone rang. Damn. It was his dad. Tyler had refrained from picking up a call from his dad for about the last fiv
e times, so he supposed he may as well face the music. He had a moment.
“Hi Dad. What’s up?”
“Not too much, not too much. You know how it goes. Working on my site. How are you?”
“I’m okay. I got put on at Alba for tonight.” Tyler headed the car toward the parking lot around the corner and down the hill.
“Alba. Wow. That’s great,” said Roger. “I’ve been meaning to go down there. It’s cuisine from the Piedmont region. That’s very cool.”
“That’s right,” said Tyler. “Alba is a town in Piedmont.” He looked over his shoulder as he backed the Civic into position for a fast exit.
“I read about that super-hot chef who owns it.” His father’s voice grew solemn. “Seattle is really a great food town. We’re so fortunate.”
“Yeah,” said Tyler, yanking the parking brake. “They’re having some big foodie event here tonight, so I’m kinda busy, Dad.”
“Really? I suppose you can’t get me in there on a courtesy basis? Like I’m going to write about it or something. You know. As a food marketing professional?”
“No!” said Tyler, trying not to shout. “If you can’t afford to eat here, then stay home. Make yourself a sandwich.” Typical! Now he was trying to scam free meals. “Got to go, Dad.”
“Wait, wait!” said his father. “How about if I come down there tonight just as a customer? Maybe meet and mingle a little. Do a little networking with the food community.”
“Forget it, Dad,” said Tyler. That’s all he needed. His dad lurking around on his first day on the job. “It’s a private gig,” said Tyler. “In a private dining room. Scott Duckworth is going to be there,” he added cruelly, letting Roger know the gathering was out of his league.
“Scott! No kidding?” Now Roger was really interested. “I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. I understand he’s very loyal to the folks he started with.”
“Do. Not. Show. Up. Here. Tonight. Please,” said Tyler. “Gotta go. Text me.” Tyler crammed the phone into his pocket, secure in the knowledge his dad had never bothered to learn how to text.
Tyler got out and noticed that he had parked the Civic next to a gray Audi that looked strangely familiar. He glanced in the window and noted some matted-looking dog hair on the backseat. Walking past it, he recognized a slightly rusted-out tailpipe, and a bumper sticker that said MY DAUGHTER IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT MCCLURE MIDDLE SCHOOL.
Tyler also noticed that the trunk wasn’t completely shut. Maybe the latch was broken. He lifted the trunk lid slightly, and the tiny light popped on, revealing a large black suitcase. This was a bad idea in this poorly secured lot. Tyler examined both halves of the latch carefully to see if something was obstructing the opposing part or if the latch was misaligned somehow. Everything seemed normal. He placed both hands on the trunk lid, banged it firmly into place, and was relieved to hear the sound of the latch engaging, and then tested it just to make sure it was closed.
The car wasn’t waxed and polished. Whoever owned it apparently wasn’t one of those finicky customers. Tyler figured no one would care if there were a bunch of fingerprints on the trunk.
———
ROGER Benson went into the kitchen and refilled his wineglass from the box of Chardonnay in the fridge. It all made such sense. If anyone could get his dream back on track, it was Scott Duckworth.
Roger fiddled impatiently with the plastic spigot of the wine box. Costco wine! It was so damn pathetic. Why had Tyler been so negative? Why shouldn’t he go down there to Alba and casually run into Scott? And remind him of the old days. Scott had hired him right out of the staff of the University of Washington Daily, in Scott’s old hangout, the Last Exit. It had been one of the first places in Seattle to get espresso. Roger had loved going there for cappuccino after class.
Of course now he knew that Italians only drank cappuccino at breakfast time. He should have been ordering shots of espresso. In fact, he’d even called it “expresso” back then, with an x. But, Roger reflected, unschooled as he had been in the ways of Italian culture, even as a raw youth he’d been interested in the finer aspects of life. Scott had been there at the Last Exit for the chess, of course. But maybe now he’d be receptive to a DIY artisanal food enterprise, something with terrific franchise opportunities.
Roger knocked back half of the wine standing in front of the fridge, and refilled the glass to the brim, saddened again by the humiliating plastic spigot.
He returned to his office, and to the website for Scott’s foundation that he’d just discovered. He reread the bio that described Scott as “a world-class philanthropist whose vision is poised to lead the initiatives of the twenty-first century and shape a better world, and an innovative, cutting-edge investor with a forward-looking approach to identifying solutions that will benefit global citizens everywhere.”
Roger was sure Carla had approved that clunky sentence. Carla hadn’t had much to contribute back when the business was struggling. It was always Helene, the office manager, who held everything together during the heady youth of DuckSoft. Helene was always so pretty and cheerful and feminine, while Carla, Scott’s bossy big sister, was just a bitch on wheels.
He remembered how Helene had tried to comfort him when Carla rewrote his copy. It was Helene who tried to hint to him that Carla might have it in for him. He remembered that drunken lunch where he’d poured out all his professional fears. He remembered Helene’s hand on his at the table, and later her soothing low tones after he’d been fired.
———
“WHAT! Why the hell did you put him there? Are you crazy?” demanded Sergei Lagunov. He was sitting next to Volodya Zelenko in the bar at Donna’s.
Volodya waved a chubby hand in the air. “I have reasons.”
“But there are people coming in and out of there all the time,” said Sergei.
“That’s right. Veek and Cheep are coming in and out of there all the time.” Volodya caught the barmaid’s eye and moved his index finger up and down like an oil derrick over the rim of his empty vodka-rocks glass.
“I don’t get it,” said Sergei.
Volodya turned to him and looked hurt. “It was your idea. You’re the one who said we should put squeeze on them by letting them know they are somehow involved. So I involve them. Veek was guy who parked car. Maybe we tell him he’s involved.”
Sergei had mentioned something like this, it was true. His idea had been to maybe threaten them with a false accusation if the cops came around wondering what happened to Old Pasha. Maybe threaten to plant the gun on them or something.
“I don’t want you to tell Vic and Chip anything,” said Sergei now.
“Anyway,” said Volodya, sipping his fresh drink, “you better get over there right away. The car was parked twenty minutes ago, and the owners are probably halfway through the first course.” He handed Sergei a Donna’s matchbook. Donna’s was one of the last places in town that provided its customers with matchbooks. “The license number is inside. Gray Audi. Right by gate.”
Sergei grabbed the matchbook and took off. If there was any traffic on I-5, the car’s owner might leave the restaurant before he got there. Sergei Lagunov was losing his patience with Volodya. It was time to move on up to Dmytro and deal with him.
———
A red SL55 AMG Mercedes sports sedan with the top down pulled up to the Alba entrance. “Nice!” Chip said, leaping into position to open the door for the wiry ginger-haired male driver, while Tyler opened the passenger door to let out his plump female companion. Chip eased himself behind the wheel and caressed the gear shift. “You know how much this car would set you back?” he asked. Tyler assumed it was a rhetorical question, but Chip went ahead and answered it. “At least a hundred grand.”
Tyler kind of hoped Chip would take him along to demonstrate how the retractable convertible roof worked. He’d never parked one of these, and if Chip had been a good shift lead, he would have realized that and trained him on it so if another one like that came in, Tyler wou
ldn’t look like an idiot.
But just then, a customer Tyler knew he’d seen before, accompanied by a thin, dark woman who was presumably his wife, came bursting out of the restaurant. She was on the phone. “I’m really sorry, sweetie,” she said in a trembling voice.
After more than a year as a valet, connecting a person with a car was hard-wired into Tyler’s brain. This guy was a regular at Donna’s. And now he realized that the gray Audi with the popped trunk that had looked familiar to him was this guy’s car.
Tyler stepped forward, took their ticket, and recited his scripted “I hope you enjoyed your dining experience.”
The gray Audi guy said angrily, “What dining experience? We didn’t get to eat anything but our appetizer!”
“We have an emergency at home,” the woman said, sounding distraught.
The gray Audi guy, usually mild-mannered at Donna’s, snapped, “An emergency! Give me a break! My parents never did my homework for me!”
“But it’s a special project! There’s a diorama and a PowerPoint!” she said in an anguished voice.
“I’ll get it right away,” said Tyler. He took the keys off the board. “I know exactly where the car is.” The gray Audi guy looked at Tyler sharply. He seemed to be wondering where he knew him from.
Tyler took off loping. When he passed through the back lot where the better cars were parked, he was startled to see Chip rise from behind the red Mercedes. Tyler wondered what he had been doing crouched behind it. Maybe he was checking to see if he’d scratched it. He was probably so excited about Scott Duckworth’s arrival he was off his game.
By the time Tyler returned with the car, Mrs. Gray Audi was standing with her arms across her chest in a defensive position, and her husband was scowling. Tyler had thought of mentioning he’d closed the trunk—it might be worth a better tip. As Tyler handed over the keys, the gray Audi guy said to his wife, “God damn it, Caroline, can’t the little brat make her own goddamn diorama?’’ The wife’s eyes filled with tears. Tyler decided to forget about mentioning the trunk. He figured he was lucky to get the buck the gray Audi guy jammed into his hand.
