Tipping the Valet

by K. K. Beck

  “A Russian guy?” Tyler had already figured that Vic was part of the Donna’s Casino branch of the Russian mafia, but what was Chip going along with him for? “Did they say who he was?”

  “I don’t remember,” said Brian. “But they were talking about some Russian guy earlier. He had a cool name. Capitan Zhukov. I think that would make a good name for one of my zombie masters.”

  “They’re at some guy called Captain Zhukov’s funeral?” repeated Tyler.

  “I don’t know. Chip told me they were going to a funeral for some Russian guy. But before that, when I first came on shift, I heard them talking about some guy named Capitan Zhukov. But, it wasn’t, like, Captain Zhukov, it was, like, Cap-ee-tawn like a foreign language. He was leaving town or something. I don’t know. Don’t you think it’s a cool name for a character? I’m thinking there’s like a zombie initiation thing and—”

  “Totally,” said Tyler, cutting him off. “A totally cool name for a zombie master.”

  ———

  OUTSIDE the church, Gennady Gelashvili waited in his car. He was on the phone to his wife. “No, I didn’t go inside, but his car’s here.” Vic had refused to respond to all the texts and voicemails they’d sent, and this was the only place they knew they might find him. That strange man with the scar had been very precise about the time and place. “I’ll be sure and have a word with him when he comes out.”

  He looked down at the picture he’d printed up from the PDF that Ivan had sent him. It was a family snapshot with a smiling Ivan, wearing a leather jacket and holding a cigarette, his arm around his buxom wife, Svetlana, and standing in front, looking mischievous, little Gleb with a cowlicky blond haircut. He was thirteen, Ivan had said in the email, but small for his age. He looked about ten or eleven. Ivan explained that they had indulged his constant on-line fantasy role playing because he was so small for his age. They figured it was good for him to feel powerful and masterful in his pseudonymous on-line activities, and it seemed to make him happy.

  Ivan had assured Gennady the boy was brilliant but not really motivated at school. In fact, Ivan had hopes of educating the boy at a university abroad. His English was coming along nicely, in part from spending so much time on the Internet. Could cousin Gennady give them some tips on how that could be arranged? He was sorry little Gleb had sent all those foolish emails, but he was just over-imaginative. It wouldn’t happen again, and they had confiscated his computer for three weeks.

  The doors to the church opened, and Gennady observed a group of men staggering down the steps with a coffin, while an altar boy in a lacy surplice and untied sneakers swung a censer. A priest and a small group of mourners followed the coffin and Gennady spotted his son and got out of the car. He felt like bounding toward him, but the solemnity of the occasion inhibited him. Instead he stood across the street and waved at Victor.

  His son scowled and turned away. Next to him, the man with the scar followed Victor’s gaze, muttered something to him, and strolled slowly across the street toward Gennady, pausing to light a cigarette. Victor took off in another direction with a youngish blond guy.

  “Your son can’t talk to you now,” said the man with the scar. “We’re going to the cemetery.”

  “I need to talk to my son,” said Gennady, looking over the man’s shoulder with a desperate feeling as his son strode away to his car.

  “Now’s not a good time,” said the man.

  “Look,” said Gennady, “I want you to give him this. It’s a picture of his cousin Gleb. See? Here’s my cousin Ivan and Ivan’s wife, Svetlana. She’s a dentist. And there’s Gleb. It’s important. He’s been emailing Gleb and Gleb’s been pretending to be an adult. I just wanted him to know.” He imagined he sounded slightly crazy.

  The man took the picture and smiled. “Yeah, he’s mentioned him,” he said. “I’ll make sure he gets this. And what does Ivan do?”

  “He works for some company in Vladivostok that makes some kind of technical equipment,” said Gennady, feeling a little more relaxed at this show of interest in the family. “I think he’s a bookkeeper.”

  “That’s interesting,” said the man with a little smile that dragged his scar upwards.

  ———

  HELENE wasn’t sure at first that the restaurant where she was meeting Roger was the one that used to be called Chez Marie. In the seventies and eighties it had been a cozy kind of place with red-checkered tablecloths. Chez Marie had served crêpes filled with savory, gloppy fillings like asparagus in Hollandaise sauce or bits of beef in Béarnaise sauce. Now, it looked like an abandoned industrial site with rusty-looking walls, stainless steel tables, and tall, uncomfortable stools. Helene put her purse down on the floor and climbed up on the stool, hooking the low heels of her pumps over a rung.

  She looked at the menu, a strange selection of vaguely Asian dumplings and noodles with sides of puréed root vegetables and odd combinations of ingredients like jicama and pork bellies and kimchi and things with Spanish and Vietnamese names all together on the same plate. Well, Roger might like it. He’d always fancied himself a gourmet, sneering at Scott’s love of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and tuna casseroles.

  Suddenly Roger appeared, and rushed over to her table. “Helene! It’s so good to see you!” he said, standing in front of her tall stool with arms outstretched. She could barely make out his youthful self in the middle-aged face, but his voice was so familiar. It was funny how people aged. Their faces got kind of scrunched like apple dolls, and he had one of those wattle things under his chin just like she was developing. All her contemporaries looked like her parents these days—but he seemed to have held up fairly well.

  He leaned over and gave her a huge hug, which alarmed her as she was afraid the wobbly stool might tip over, causing her to cling to him. Now he was planting a kiss on her cheek. “God, you look fabulous,” he said, now holding her by the shoulders, staring into her face and tipping the stool backwards, in the manner of a middle-aged newspaper reader without reading glasses. “You always had such a sweet face!”

  “Hello, Roger,” she said, disentangling herself and patting her hair back into place as he repositioned her so the stool was now level. As he bounced youthfully over to the opposite stool and perched there, she noticed a woman about their age glaring at her over the menu at a table behind Roger. Maybe she found his effusiveness annoying. Something about the austere atmosphere of the place did make it seem like some kind of gloomy Zen temple to serenity—just like the bleak Japanese garden Carla had installed outside Helene’s office window.

  “But then you were always such a sweet person!” he said. “Always there for me.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about you lately,” she said briskly. “After this business with Scott and all. I’ve been worried about you. That policewoman, Debbie Myers, has been asking a lot of questions about what you were doing at the restaurant that night.” She paused and smiled self-consciously.

  “It was kind of an impulsive thing,” he said. “I was talking to my son and he said Scott was going to be there, and I kind of thought it would be great to see him again.” He leaned over confidentially. “And, to be honest, I was hoping to talk to him. I had a business proposition for him.”

  “Oh, he gets lots of those,” said Helene.

  “Artisanal Italian take-out that you make yourself under expert supervision,” said Roger solemnly. “Honest ingredients and authentic tools. Totally Tuscan décor. I started with just one location and planned to work it into an upscale franchise, but the startup costs were more than I planned for. But you can’t cheap out on a concept like…” He paused and said dramatically, “Ricotteria.”

  “Well, I was hoping you could explain all that to Debbie,” said Helene. “But she says you aren’t co-operating with her. Don’t you think you should explain to her? About this Ricotterie idea of yours.”

  He corrected her gently. “Ricotteria, actually. Ricotterie would be French.”

  “Okay, Rissoteri
a, then,” she said.

  He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Ricotteria with a c. We thought of Rissoteria, but it wasn’t as visually striking signage-wise. Anyway, to be honest, I’ve been advised by my attorney not to talk to the police,” he said. “I mean, I didn’t have anything to do with some nut taking a shot at Scott. But it’s complicated. My kid works there as a valet. Just a little college job, and the police are leaning on him, too. I don’t understand what’s going on there, I really don’t, but somehow they got it all mixed up with that email I sent, and they think I might be some nutty disgruntled ex-employee.” Roger laughed. “Ridiculous, of course.”

  Just then a young woman with a crew-cut in a black apron over black pants and shirt came over and said, “Have you had time to look at the menu?”

  “Give us a few minutes,” said Roger. As she began to withdraw he added, “What kind of Pinot Grigio do you have by the glass? No, never mind.” He beamed at Helene, and said, “How about some Champagne?”

  “Oh, I don’t think…” Helene didn’t drink at lunch. Nobody did anymore. She was afraid she’d fall asleep at her desk. But Roger was now fiddling with the wine list. “Bring us a bottle of this! I haven’t seen this pretty lady in twenty years or so!”

  Helene managed to smile. This was probably okay. It might get Roger to be even more forthcoming.

  Outside the restaurant, Debbie Myers pulled up, got out of her car, and peered into the restaurant through a large spiky plant in the window. He was there all right, beaming at Helene. This just might do the trick. She went back to her car and settled in to wait until they emerged.

  In the car, her cell phone rang. It was her dad, back from his cruise right on schedule. “Hi, Daddy,” she said. “Did you and Mom have a good time? I can’t wait to hear all about it. But listen, first I want you to help me on a case. Remember that scandal back in the day? Thefts from the property room?”

  Inside the restaurant, Roger and Helene clinked flutes, and Roger said, “I’m afraid that stock option money is all gone. We thought it would be a good thing to spend some of it taking the family to Italy for a year. It was great for the kids. Really helped them get well-rounded, you know. And while I was there, I realized the potential of artisanal do-it-yourself take-out.” He leaned over the table. “Think Starbucks but it’s food and you make it yourself.”

  “An interesting idea,” said Helene doubtfully.

  Roger bounced a little atop his stool. “You bet it is! But I was way ahead of the curve. I launched it too soon. Now is the time! That’s why I need to talk to Scott. I was undercapitalized. And the public needed to be educated about the concept. I needed more promotion.”

  “Listen,” said Helene, looking over the menu. “There’s no way Scott will want to hear about it if it looks like you’ve been involved in that shooting. Carla won’t let him. Red Ott won’t let him. You have to clear yourself.”

  “Red Ott? That ex-cop security guard who worked for us?”

  Out in the car, Debbie, still on the phone, was saying, “Red Ott! You’re sure?”

  “That was the word,” said her father. “His uncle Ralph was the assistant chief at the time. They just kind of eased him out of there. No loss to the department, that’s for sure! Maybe it was a good thing they kept a lid on it. Who needs a bunch of smart-ass reporters talking about crooked cops. It undermines respect.”

  Reluctantly, Helene ordered some pancakes with red cabbage and some kind of pickled fish. She’d liked those gloppy crêpes when this was Chez Marie. Her favorite had been melted Swiss cheese with ham. She took a sip of Champagne and leaned over the table. “If you agree to talk to Debbie, and get this all cleared up, I can put you on Scott’s calendar.”

  “You’d do that for me?” he said. Suddenly he leaned across the table and kissed her. “I love you!” he said in a loud voice.

  Helene pulled away and her tall stool tipped sideways. As it hovered slightly, and just before she toppled onto the floor, she saw the woman who had glared at them earlier throwing her napkin on the table and marching toward her.

  “Ingrid!” said Roger. “What are you doing here?”

  As the young woman with the crew cut and two other similarly ninja-clad members of the wait staff rushed to Helene’s crumpled form, the woman said, “That’s what I should be asking you! I heard you making this date yesterday! You can’t even manage an affair properly!”

  Helene, horrified, clambered to her feet, clutched her purse, and headed for the door. Tears were forming in her eyes. As she pushed open the door, one of the ninjas said, “Ma’am! Ma’am! Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she said.

  Out on the sidewalk, Debbie got out of her car and rushed toward Helene, who was addressing a knot of worried-looking young people in black in apologetic tones. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to sue you or anything.”

  Just then, Roger and Ingrid Benson appeared on the sidewalk. Ingrid was saying, “You said you loved her!” She pointed at Helene.

  Helene’s head swiveled toward Ingrid. “Well, I don’t love him,” said Helene. “I just want him to talk to her.” She pointed at Debbie Myers. “I love someone else,” she said. “I’m worried about him. That’s why I’m here.” Now she burst into tears.

  Debbie put her arm around her and said, “I know, honey. And I think you should tell him.” Now she addressed Roger. “Can we talk?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  DO YOU REALLY THINK WE CAN get rid of them?” Flavia said. Tyler had arranged to meet her at the Jack in the Box on University Way and now he was leading her to his car. His valet instincts now fully ingrained, he opened her door first and she slid past him. She was in her student uniform—yoga pants, no makeup, hair down, and those sweet glasses. She even smelled different. More like soap and less like the part of Nordstrom’s near the entrance where they sold cosmetics and perfume.

  “If we can get Veronica to tell the police they are stealing cars, I think we might be able to get the police to get rid of them for you,” said Tyler, closing the door with a professional thunk. As he pulled into traffic, he realized it was weird driving her around, like they were on a date or something.

  “I’m scared,” she said. “What if they find out?”

  “They won’t think you have anything to do with it,” said Tyler. “That’s why we’re having my grandfather’s lawyer tell them.”

  “But you told me this lawyer didn’t want you to talk to the police about anything. Maybe she won’t talk to them either.”

  “We can give it a try. If it doesn’t work, maybe you should see if Scott Duckworth can help you. Maybe he has some connections that can get right to the police. Like that security guy he has.”

  “Ha! Red Ott! That moron!” said Flavia.

  “Scott Duckworth must be an idiot to have a moron like that working for him,” said Tyler, glad to be able to say something unkind about Duckworth. What a jerk! He could have saved Flavia by now. What was wrong with him?

  “Anyway,” said Flavia, “what I really want is for Scott Duckworth to buy the business. Then he can deal with those Russians and that loan. And my brother can just do what he wants, which is to cook.”

  “Do you think he will buy the business?”

  “I think he wants to. But his sister, Carla, won’t let him.” Flavia narrowed her eyes. “She thinks it’s just because he’s attracted to me.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Tyler, disgusted at the thought of that old man touching the girl next to him. “A guy like that, with all his money, I guess he could get anyone he wanted.” Tyler didn’t like the direction he seemed to be taking so he changed his tone. “Anyway, I’m sorry you got so involved in your brother’s business,” said Tyler. “It sounds like you’re just like me. You just want to go to school.”

  “It’s my parents!” said Flavia. “They got me involved. They have a restaurant in Alba. Very traditional. My father is the chef and my mother does the front end. So when my brothe
r ended up here—after he fell in love with an American girl—my parents sent me over here to keep an eye on things.”

  “To keep an eye on the business?”

  Flavia nodded. “And on the American girl. They were worried about his marrying a foreigner. They are very conventional. They thought she was strange and that she dressed badly. And she was terrible in the restaurant. She couldn’t open wine bottles correctly, or shave truffles over a dish with any style. She couldn’t even walk properly, they said. The restaurant business is theater. You are on stage. They couldn’t bear to have him run a restaurant with someone like that. She was not like Italian girls.”

  “What happened to her?” Tyler was starting to feel sorry for the girl he imagined to be a typical hearty, uncoquettish Seattle girl sporting Polar Fleece outfits and sneakers, and clomping around in a kind of gender-neutral way.

  Flavia shrugged. “She left him. She hated the business. Even if she could have done it well, she didn’t want to stand around holding menus all day and smiling. I don’t blame her! But she didn’t understand. A family business—the whole family has to help. She ran off with her personal trainer and now she’s studying to be a massage therapist.”

  “My father tried to start a business,” said Tyler. “But he wasn’t like your parents. He didn’t know what he was doing—he just wanted to feel glamorous. He lost a fortune and stuck me with a huge bill for my college fees. I’m paying it off parking cars so I can go to graduate school without owing any more money.

  “I love school,” he added.

  “Me, too,” she said.

  “Flavia, we both need to figure out how to do what we want—without our parents ruining everything.”

  ———

  THE fish master of the Russian trawler in dry dock looked at the picture Sergei showed him and laughed. “That’s him? The criminal mastermind Gleb?” His voice echoed in the vast space. The two men were sitting in the cafeteria of the vessel. When the factory trawler was back at sea, the workers who dragged tons of pollock out of the Bering Sea and headed, gutted, and froze it in the factory inside the hull of the vessel would fill up this cafeteria, eating huge meals in around-the-clock shifts, but today, there were just the two of them, an ashtray, a bottle of vodka, and two glasses.