Tipping the Valet

by K. K. Beck

  Dmytro pulled out his wallet and handed five hundred-dollar bills to Sergei. “I appreciate it. Quick thinking. Now I want you to do another little job for me. I’m interested in Victor Gelashvili. Tell me everything you know about him.”

  Sergei slipped the bills into his pocket right next to Volodya’s pistol. “He used to spend a lot of time in the bar at Donna’s,” said Sergei. “He talked to us a lot. He parked cars there. Then he parked cars at that Italian restaurant, but he still came and hung out with us at Donna’s. His parents are Russian, and he speaks it pretty well. He told us about the kind of cars he was parking there, and I asked him if he’d like to make some money and hooked him up with Volodya. So now he works for Volodya. Like me. His buddy Chip helps him out. They scout cars for us, slap a device on them so we can find them, get the manufacturers’ key codes if they can so we can get dupes made, and we give them a commission on every one that works out.”

  “But what do you know about him personally?”

  “Hardly anything,” said Sergei. “What do you want to know?” Presumably, Dmytro wanted to know if, as Volodya believed, Vic was helping himself to what belonged to the Zelenko cousins.

  “He says he has uncle in Tbilisi. A vor. Do you believe this?”

  Sergei shrugged. He wasn’t expecting this. “There are a lot of them in Georgia. Hard men.”

  Dmytro nodded. “I know before you came here, you lived in Brighton Beach.”

  Actually, Sergei had lived in Long Beach, California, but that wasn’t the story he’d told Volodya. He’d also hinted to Volodya that he was part of a witness protection program, but not because he’d ratted out anyone from his own organization. He had, he explained, sent some Italian mafiosi to prison for messing with the Russians.

  “That’s right. But I don’t want that to get around. It’s a delicate situation.”

  “Yes, I understand completely,” said Dmytro. “I was wondering if you were able to find out some way, or if perhaps you had heard something. He said it was his father’s brother, so the man’s name would be Gelashvili. And his first name was Ivan. His son Gleb is also involved.”

  Sergei looked doubtful. “I can maybe find out for you. But there are quite a few Gelashvilis in Georgia. You said from Tbilisi?”

  Just then, Dmytro’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked down. “Bah!” he said. “The county jail!” A second later, he began shouting in Ukrainian. As a Russian speaker, Sergei understood enough to get the gist. Dmytro cursed Volodya out, said he should never have called, and refused to make bail for him. ”My stupid fucking cousin,” said Dmytro with an exasperated look.

  “You must be worried about him,” said Sergei.

  ———

  IT was quarter to two in the real world, but in the bar at Alba the clock already said two to give the staff time to clear out everyone by legal closing time. The foodie conventioneers were apparently closing the bar, judging by the cluster of Hertz, Budget, Alamo, and Avis key chains on the board, so Tyler expected them all to come out at the same time, any minute now.

  Sure enough, they swarmed out together a few minutes later, all chatty and bouncy after hours of eating and drinking.

  “I hope you enjoyed your evening here at Ristorante Alba,” said Tyler with as much conviction as he could muster. He sure as hell hadn’t enjoyed his evening here, wondering the whole time if the valet area would get shot up again. And the tips weren’t that great. Foodies saved their generosity for inside the restaurant so they could suck up to the wait staff. And they usually weren’t out on dates trying to impress women.

  “Oh my God, we sure did!” said one effusive female foodie with a New York accent. “We got to meet Chef Torcelli and everything! We got a tour of the kitchen!”

  Chef Torcelli? Tyler was startled. That was Flavia’s name. She must be married to the owner. That explained why she seemed to be running the place. So maybe she didn’t want to be Mrs. Duckworth after all. Or maybe she did. Maybe the chef was just a first husband.

  “Everyone knows Piedmont is the new Tuscany,” said her companion, a lady with a purple hat. “But what’s so exciting is how they’re taking it to a whole new level here.” She was digging in her purse looking in vain for her ticket. “I know it’s in here somewhere.” She paused her search briefly to describe to Tyler what she had eaten. “We started with a really simple carpaccio—”

  Tyler cut her off. “I’m glad you had a great time,” he said, resisting the temptation to tell her about the excellent chicken burrito from the food truck down the street he’d had earlier.

  “And Flavia is so sweet!” said the first woman. “And so brave! Opening up right away after that terrible tragedy. We wanted to come and show our support and they really appreciated it.”

  “That’s great,” said Tyler. “Why don’t you step to the side and find that ticket, while I help someone else.” Flavia hardly struck him as sweet. And how brave did you have to be inside the restaurant. He was the one in the line of fire.

  He turned to the large bearded man who was next in line. “Ford Escape SUV, right?” he said, taking his ticket and handing it to another valet. This guy had come in with about a half dozen people, so as soon as he got them packed into their vehicle and on the road he’d have cleared out half of them.

  After the last car left, he organized his tips, putting all the bills face up with the heads in the same direction and sorting them by denomination. Tyler was astonished to find a roll of six fifties in there. Apparently, the gray Audi guy who’d come in earlier to ask him not to rat him out to his wife had slipped him three hundred bucks.

  Chapter Nine

  BEFORE HE WENT INTO Jessica’s office, to pick up his last check from Donna’s, Tyler had told himself not to tell her about the way things had gone wrong at Donna’s during one of his last shifts there. But he couldn’t stop himself.

  It had been a nightmare. Logan had used a customer’s car to go out and get something to eat. The customer was an old guy with a beloved 1988 Oldsmobile he’d bought new. The guy had stood there at the valet booth for twenty minutes, saying, “Where the hell is my car?”

  “When the car finally came back, it smelled of burgers and fries, but thank God the old guy hadn’t noticed! You should get rid of him!” said Tyler.

  “I can’t get rid of him,” said Jessica. “Donna’s his aunt. Logan’s cousin Hughie won’t let us. And we owe Hughie big time. It goes beyond Donna’s.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hughie got us the Alba account. Don’t ask me how.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It was amazing. He just told me to go down there and it would be a done deal. I talked to that Italian gal for ten minutes and she didn’t say anything or ask any questions about us. She just fired the old valet company and hired us, like Hughie said she would. And it’s a prime account.”

  Tyler mulled this over. It seemed unlikely that Hughie would have any influence over Flavia Torcelli.

  “So you’re on full time at Alba for now,” said Jessica. “A couple of guys quit after the shooting. And Vic will be Shift Lead until Chip gets back.”

  Just then, two men walked into the tiny office.

  “Oh,” said Jessica, looking animated. “You’re those detectives.” Tyler assumed they had something to do with the shooting. This could be interesting.

  “That’s right,” said the younger one with the gray hair. He handed over a business card, which Jessica examined carefully. “I just want to double check,” he said. He held out a valet tag, the kind Tyler attached to bunches of keys every night. Green cardboard. A printed number in black. The Elite logo in pink.

  “Yeah, that’s ours,” said Jessica.

  Lukowski nodded. “So we’re talking about a gray Audi, two nights ago at Alba. The party had to leave early. You wouldn’t keep any record of that, would you?”

  “No, not really,” said Jessica. “The tag is only there to match the keys to the right c
ar. It’s not any kind of permanent record. Maybe the valet might remember.”

  Gray Audi? Suddenly Tyler realized that these guys weren’t investigating the shooting. They must be private detectives after the poor jerk who tipped him three hundred bucks last night to hide the fact that he hung out at Donna’s Casino after work. Maybe the guy’s wife had found this tag and had hired these guys to track his movements. He wasn’t sure why Jessica would be so cooperative with a couple of private detectives. It seemed to him that they shouldn’t be discussing people whose cars they parked.

  But how had they known the tag came from Alba? They were all the same. Maybe the wife had found it and the husband had sworn it was from Alba. Which it actually could have been, seeing as they had both been there two nights ago.

  “We’ll check,” said the second man. “Just wanted to confirm that was your tag.”

  “Oh sure,” said Jessica.

  “Thanks for your time,” said the shorter, older guy in the orange-looking sports jacket. He turned around and nodded at Tyler also. Their eyes locked, and Tyler suddenly felt a little sleazy, remembering that three hundred dollars. He cast his gaze away.

  ———

  AS MacNab and Lukowski got back into their car, Lukowski said, “Did I tell you I got an update from Debbie Myers in Crimes Against Persons? The Duckworth car is still at the lab. You know how long Ballistics takes. I’m going to try and get them to check out the bullet we took out of tattoo guy with the valet’s at the same time. I figure we can get some answers faster if we piggyback on her case.”

  “Good idea,” said MacNab. “Scott Duckworth has got to be more important than our dead guy. As far as I know, our guy isn’t a pal of the mayor’s. What else did Debbie say?”

  “She said it seemed like a semi-pro drive-by. Powerful Camaro, the kind of thing you’d steal for a job like that. Only weird thing they haven’t figured out yet is a bedroom slipper they found at the scene. They’re not sure if it’s related, but no one could account for it.”

  Lukowski looked thoughtful. “Could be some kind of gang calling card.”

  “Yeah,” said MacNab. “Like that restaurant union guy back in the eighties who had parmesan sprinkled all over him.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Lukowski.

  “Before your time,” said MacNab. “They found him dead in his own bathtub. Not your typical Seattle killing, that’s for sure.”

  “Let’s go over there and check the place out. Where the car was parked and all that,” said Lukowski. “While we’re there we can see if the valet remembers Smethurst and his wife. That gal was a little vague about where that tag came from.”

  “I didn’t like the look of that kid in there with her,” commented MacNab. “He’s good for something. He had a guilty, weaselly kind of look. Wonder what he’s got to hide.”

  “Probably lifting meter money from the beverage holders in the cars he parks, one quarter at a time,” said Lukowski.

  ———

  RED Ott hadn’t wanted to climb into the Dumpster, but he figured he had to. If only he’d been able to get back sooner and retrieve his weapon from the garbage can outside the restaurant door. But he’d been tied up in meetings and eventually he’d had to escort Scott Duckworth to the airport where he had flown off in his business jet to a comics convention in San Diego.

  He had staked the place out and discovered that the garbage can outside the restaurant got emptied into this Dumpster. Fortunately it was out of the line of sight from the restaurant’s back door, halfway down a hill by what was apparently the restaurant’s rear and hidden parking lot.

  He had chosen three in the afternoon for this retrieval operation. He figured there wouldn’t be any action here now. The lunch trade would be over and dinner wouldn’t have started yet.

  Sighing, Red removed his light tweed jacket, folded it neatly, and laid it down on the asphalt next to the Dumpster. Then he pulled himself up to the metal lip a few feet from the ground and grabbed the top, doubting that he actually could pull himself up and over the edge, but knowing he had to. The Dumpster had two sections to its lid. He’d be able to look down into it from the top of the closed part. After a few attempts, he managed to scramble up onto the top.

  Lukowski and MacNab were now walking down the path of boards over damp grass, following Flavia Torcelli, who managed to pick her way rather neatly across the hardscrabble terrain, even in her heels. “You’ll need to talk to the valets themselves,” she said, “but this is where the cars go.”

  Ott, splayed out on the Dumpster, looked over his shoulder and decided he really didn’t want the babe from Alba to know he was diving into her Dumpster. How could he explain that? He had a vague impression that she was accompanied by two men, but he didn’t stop to scrutinize them, he just slid into the Dumpster, feet first, and hoped he’d land on something stable.

  To his horror, he landed on another human being, who was moving in an agitated manner and yelling in fear. He then took a header into something damp and clingy and scrambled to get himself vertical again. Now he was staring into the gnarled face of a grizzled old bum with a bushy beard and the stench of stale booze mixed with urine.

  Red Ott screamed.

  Before he knew what was happening, two male faces appeared above him looking into the Dumpster.

  “What are you guys up to?” demanded MacNab. “Get the hell out of there.”

  It took Red Ott and the bum a while to clamber out.

  MacNab picked up the tweed jacket Ott had carefully folded and laid down. “Which of you gentlemen owns this?” he asked.

  “That’s mine,” said Ott.

  Flavia Torcelli had now picked her way over to the Dumpster. She stood back a little, but was watching, clearly fascinated.

  “Madonna!” she said. “It’s Mr. Ott.”

  Red sighed. “That’s right. Doing a little follow-up on the security here, and I saw this guy acting suspicious.”

  Lukowski turned to Flavia. “You know him?”

  “He’s a bodyguard for Scott Duckworth,” she said. “What’s he doing here? It’s where we throw our garbage.”

  Ott was struggling to get back into his jacket. “Bodyguard? Actually I am the Chief Executive Security Officer. Like I said, Mr. Duckworth, against my advice, has shown an interest in returning to this restaurant, despite an assassination attempt.” He glanced over at Flavia. “Against all my professional advice.”

  “Oh really? Scott’s coming back?” said Flavia with a big smile. “I was afraid he’d never come back to Alba.”

  Now the grizzled bum spoke up. “The food’s excellent,” he explained helpfully.

  MacNab glanced at the Dumpster. “Is that why you were in there?”

  “Well, yeah,” said the bum. “I didn’t mean any harm. I’m an urban scavenger. It’s terrible what people throw away. ’Course now, people are supposed to recycle food scraps. But there’s still sometimes some perfectly good stuff in there.”

  Flavia crossed her arms, frowned, and turned to Ott. “If you want to check this place out you should have come to me and told me what you are doing. Not climb into the Dumpster behind my restaurant. It’s not dignified.”

  The grizzled bum seemed annoyed that no one was paying attention to him. “There’s perfectly good stuff in there,” he repeated.

  “There’s other places to get food,” said MacNab. “You should stay out of Dumpsters. It’s dangerous.”

  “Not all of the good stuff I find is food,” said the bum. “Bet you’ll never guess what else I found in there.”

  “What?” demanded Flavia. “What else did you find?”

  “Never mind,” said the bum craftily. “Can I go now?”

  “Mind turning out your pockets?” said Lukowski.

  The bum thought about it for a minute.

  “It’s a misdemeanor to go Dumpster diving,” said MacNab.

  The bum thought about it a little longer.

  “Just turn ’em out, okay?” said Lu
kowski. “My latex gloves are in the car.”

  The bum started to do as he was told. Ott watched, transfixed. To his relief, the bum only produced a couple of bus transfers, some cigarette butts, a pencil, a can opener, and some string.

  MacNab turned to Ott. “Okay, we’ve established why he was in there. What were you doing in there?” He narrowed his eyes. “You look kinda familiar. Haven’t I had some dealings with you before?”

  Ott smoothed down his comb-over. “Not that I recall. I told you. I’m checking security. And I’m glad I did because I’ve now ascertained that Dumpster could harbor someone with evil intent,” said Ott triumphantly.

  “Both you guys should stay the hell out of Dumpsters,” said MacNab.

  Lukowski turned to Flavia. “Thanks for showing us the area,” he said. “We’ll go back up now and question the valets.”

  Ott decided that there was no way he could risk going back in there. He’d have to hope that the Dumpster service would come and toss this whole load into the back of a truck soon and that the gun would end up in some landfill somewhere. Too bad. It was a really sweet weapon. But under the circumstances, Ott hoped it was gone forever.

  Chapter Ten

  IT WAS ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES after Lukowski and MacNab left the lower parking area at Alba that Tyler pulled his car into a slot there. He was making his way past the Dumpster area, when he noticed a skinny blond girl and a guy who seemed to be an elderly street drunk, with a horrible-looking white beard and a big overcoat that Tyler imagined he’d picked up at some mission somewhere.

  Suddenly he heard her scream, “Give it to me!”

  “No,” said the old man. “I found it. It’s mine.”

  The girl lunged at the old man. If it had been the other way around he supposed he’d have to come to her aid. But then he saw what they were struggling over. The old bum was holding a gun in his hand, high above his head, and she was scrabbling at his arm.

  Without thinking, Tyler approached them. “Stop it. You’ll kill someone!”

  Both of them turned to look at him and he wondered what he had been thinking.