by Leslie Karst
And now that I knew from Angelo and my dad that Gino had in fact been drinking more heavily of late, it seemed more and more likely that the description in Marvin’s letter was accurate. He had no reason to make it up, after all.
Yet Cathy had said that Gino wasn’t drunk that night and that she’d served him only two beers at most. Could she be lying?
Chapter 7
Bumping down the asphalt-coated planks of the hundred-year-old wharf, I imagined every eye to be staring at me, shooting silent accusations of negligence my way. Negligence is an ugly word—especially when you’ve worked on as many personal injury cases as I did during my stint as an attorney—and Marvin’s use of the term in his very public letter to the editor made me nervous.
Those in the tight-knit circle of the Santa Cruz Genovese were no doubt already on edge about the suspicious death of the fisherman who’d essentially been their patriarch. For them, Gino had represented the last of the old generation—those who’d kept their lampara fishing boats out here on the wharf before construction of the yacht harbor in the early sixties, using mechanical davits to raise and lower the wooden-hulled craft to the water. And those who could still remember the days when sea bass, sardines, sand dabs, and sole filled the Monterey Bay.
No, I thought as I freewheeled my bike up to the back door of Solari’s, many folks out here would not be pleased at all to hear that my family might have had something to do with Gino’s death.
Dad wasn’t in yet, so, after stowing my bike in the restaurant office, I went in search of Cathy. I no longer officially worked at Solari’s—except in “emergencies,” which my dad interpreted as meaning anytime someone called in sick. (We were still working that one out.) So I wasn’t planning on staying at the restaurant; I just needed to discuss Marvin’s letter with her and my dad and thought it best to do so in person. I also wanted to see if Cathy had found that receipt. It’s no fun worrying that your new head waitress might be lying to you.
Heading down the narrow hallway outside the office, I ran into Sean, who was loaded down with a stack of dishwasher racks filled with clean water glasses. I followed him out to the wait station, where the busboy began arranging the glasses on a shelf.
“You know who old Gino is, right?”
He gave me a quick glance but didn’t stop his unloading. “The guy who washed up on the beach? Sure, I know him.”
“Well, do you remember him coming in for dinner the week before his body was found?”
“Yeah, I do.” Sean set the empty rack on its side and turned to face me.
“And do you remember anything about him that night? Like, was he acting different in any way?” I didn’t want to put words in Sean’s mouth, but I could tell from his frown that he had noticed something about the fisherman that evening.
The teenager chewed his lip. “Uh…”
“Look, it’s okay to tell me, whatever you saw. I just need to know the truth.”
“Well, he did seem kinda … messed up.”
“How so?”
“Just a little out of it. Like he mighta had a bit too much to drink.”
“Was this when he first came in or later?” I asked.
“I didn’t really even notice him till they were done with dinner. But when I went out to bus the table he and that woman had been sitting at, he was talking real loud as they were leaving. She was trying to get him to quiet down, but he just laughed and said something that I could tell pissed her off. It was a little weird, actually, ’cause he usually barely even talked at all when he’d come into the bar in the afternoon.” Sean shook his head, staring at the empty dish rack.
“Yeah, weird,” I agreed. “So what happened next?”
“That’s all I remember. They left at that point, and I just cleared their table and took the bus tray back to the dish room.”
I frowned, staring out at the waitresses readying the dining room for the lunch service. What Marvin said in that letter must be right, after all. Damn. “Well, okay,” I said, turning to go. “Thanks for being so honest with me.”
He went back to unloading his glasses, but the teenager’s eyes kept darting my way, as if he was nervous about something. Maybe there was something he’d avoided mentioning.
“By the way,” I said, turning back as a thought occurred to me, “have you talked to anyone besides me about what Gino’s condition was like that night?”
His body stiffened.
“You did, didn’t you?”
Sean scrunched up his face, and I thought he might be about to cry. “I didn’t know he had died,” he said, his voice rising half an octave. “This was before anyone knew. I was just talking to this dude who came into the restaurant last weekend, and he told me he knew Gino but hadn’t seen him in a while. So when the guy asked if I’d seen him and how he’d been lately, I figured there was no harm in telling him…”
Sean trailed off. And, given what I was thinking—and that my expression likely mirrored the frustration I was feeling about our blabbermouth busboy—I couldn’t blame him.
“I know,” he said, bowing his head. “The guy was a reporter. I figured that out the next day, after that article was in the paper. Cathy showed it to me. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. It would have come out eventually, anyway.” Frustrating as Sean’s blabbering was, it had only hastened the inevitable. We were simply going to have to deal with the facts as they were. I left the now-contrite busboy to his water glasses and headed for the dining room, where I’d caught a glimpse of Cathy walking by a minute earlier.
She was counting out today’s cash for the till, and I waited as she finished the twenties. “Did you see the letter to the editor in this morning’s paper?” I asked, once she’d jotted the number down on the ledger.
“I did,” she said, picking up the rubber-banded stack of tens. “But I don’t understand it. If Gino had been that out of it, I surely would have noticed. Oh, and I found the bill for their table. Here.” She pulled up the register drawer and fished underneath, coming up with a carbon copy of one of the old-school guest receipts Solari’s uses. “See?” she said, handing me the bill. “Two Bud Lights, along with a full dinner. How could he get drunk on that?”
I studied the paper: two beers, one glass of Soave, plus two fish specials. “Who knows,” I said, pocketing the receipt. I recounted to her what Sean had just told me. “So I’m wondering, even though he didn’t seem drunk, if Gino maybe seemed upset or angry that night. Or maybe you saw him and the woman arguing?”
“No, nothing like that.” The waitress sighed and picked up the stack of money once again. “I wish I could help you. I really do.”
* * *
My dad had now arrived at work; I could hear his raised voice as I walked back down the hall. I found him in the kitchen, where he’d cornered Emilio against the counter where the Robot Coupe sat.
“How could you not check the order before you signed off? We were supposed to get two cases of chickens and there’s only one!” Dad shook the invoice in the line cook’s face and then stalked off, muttering to himself about having to call the vendor himself.
He had clearly seen the morning paper. Now, don’t get me wrong: my father has absolutely been known to lose his temper—on many occasions—but to physically accost a worker like that was not normal. His bad mood had to be the result of that damn letter to the editor.
I crossed the kitchen to Emilio and apologized on behalf of my dad, explaining why I thought he must have gone off on him like that. The cook waved it off with a laugh. “No worries. I’ll just make him comp me an extra beer sometime.”
I doubt he wants to hear about beers right about now, I thought as I followed my dad down to the restaurant office. He wasn’t on the phone with the vendor. Instead, he was scowling at the Saeco cycling poster, fingers tapping out a rhythm atop the metal desk.
“Hey, Dad.” Rolling my bike out of the way, I pulled out the folding chair and sat down. “I guess you must have seen the newspap
er.” And then I noticed that a copy was lying before him on the desk, open to the opinion page.
Dad stood up, turned around, and then sat back down again, like a dog who couldn’t get comfortable in its bed. “How could Marvin do this to us? And right now, with that big dinner coming up? It’s a disaster.” He leaned forward with a moan and laid his forehead on the desk.
“We don’t know that,” I said. “Who reads the newspaper anymore, anyway? I bet most people won’t even know.”
“Not true,” Dad said, head still on the desk. “I’ve already gotten a call about it.”
“From who?”
“Wanda.”
“Your neighbor?” I asked. “That busybody who calls about every strange car she sees parked on the street? Who cares what she thinks?” I reached over and shook him by the shoulder. “C’mon, it’ll be okay. This will all blow over in a few days, just wait and see. And it’s actually a good thing that dinner is coming up, because it’s gonna be great publicity for Solari’s. It’ll make everyone forget about this thing with Gino.” Hey, if I kept on like this, maybe I’d even make myself believe what I was saying. “So you wanna talk a little more about the menu?”
Dad lifted his head and sat up. “I’ve actually already decided on the menu.”
“You have?” I gaped at him. So much for caring about my opinion. Apparently it was true that all he’d really wanted was another pair of hands to help out—someone he could guilt into working without pay. But I kept these thoughts to myself. Now was not the time for a big blowout with my dad. “I thought you were waiting for me to get back to you about those prices,” was all I said.
“I’ve decided not to go with the stuffed veal breast, so I didn’t need the price on that.”
Well, that’s one thing I don’t need to worry about. “But what about the porcini? I haven’t heard from Javier about them yet.”
“I can use some other kind of mushroom if they’re too expensive,” Dad said. He folded up the newspaper and picked up a handwritten sheet underneath. “Here’s what I came up with.”
I took the paper from him and read the list he’d compiled:
antipasto (TBD), fugassa (cheese & onion, pesto)
tagliarini w/brown butter, sage & mushrooms
spaghetti w/mussels
braised meat in red sauce
chicken cacciatore
stuffed cabbage
Garibaldi cake/fried polenta
veg/salad
panettone w/gelato
I had to admit it looked like a great banquet menu. Lots of variety, but most of the items easy to prepare in advance. “Fugassa’s a good idea,” I said. That’s what we call focaccia, a bread sort of like thick pizza dough, heavy on the olive oil and salt, often served with toppings similar to pizza. “And I like the mussels, too. Way better than stoccafisso.” I handed the list back to Dad. “What kind of veg and salad are you thinking of?”
“Sautéed green beans or zucchini? And maybe a spinach salad with orange, fennel, and black olives.”
“That sounds delicious.”
“Oh, and I have this to show you, too.” He flipped through a stack of papers on the desk, coming up with a glossy flyer that he held up proudly for my inspection:
Celebrate Columbus Day at Solari’s With a Sumptuous Dinner in Honor of the Mayor of Our Sister City, Sestri Levante (Riva Trigoso)!
“Oh, no,” I said.
“What?” He turned the flyer over and studied its text. “Is there a typo?”
“Dad!” I wailed. “Columbus Day? Really?”
“What do you mean? Don’t you see? It’s perfect. When I realized that the dinner was going to be the weekend of October twelfth, it suddenly came to me: Columbus was from Genoa, which is the same province that Sestri Levante is a part of, so it’s like it was meant to be.” And then he lowered the paper and frowned. “Oh. I get it. It’s those politically correct people that have taken over the town. You’re worried about them.”
“Not just me. Just about everyone in Santa Cruz—besides you, that is—would get that this is a bad idea. Nobody celebrates Columbus Day anymore.”
“Italians do,” Dad said, making an expression somewhere between a pout and a glower. “Especially the Genovese, like us. And you too should be proud of your heritage.”
God, he could be so clueless sometimes.
“Look, Dad. You’ve got to trust me on this. We can’t call it a Columbus Day celebration. That would cause way more flack than this whole thing with Gino. There are a ton of folks out there who find the holiday to be really offensive, and insensitive to the indigenous people who were already here when Columbus supposedly ‘discovered’ America.”
“Well, it’s too late to change it now,” Dad said with a victorious smile. “I’ve already paid to have two hundred of these flyers made, and submitted it to all the local newspapers and a couple different magazines. So you and all your PC friends are just going to have to live with it being a Columbus Day dinner.”
Live to regret it, more likely.
Chapter 8
“You’ll never believe what my dad’s done now.”
“Let me guess.” Eric stretched out on the chaise longue in my backyard and kicked his flip-flops off onto the brick patio. “He’s enrolled in a yoga class and has decided to switch Solari’s to an all vegan menu.”
“I wish that were it. No, instead he’s decided that this big sister-cities deal is going to be a ‘Celebration of Columbus Day,’ and you can imagine how that will go over in this town.”
Eric put his head in his hands. “Oh, no.”
“Exactly my words. But Dad won’t listen to reason. In fact, he’s already sent the advertising copy out to all the local papers. So now we have two reasons for customers to boycott Solari’s.”
“Can’t wait to see what kind of firestorm that stirs up,” Eric said with a chuckle.
“Thanks for your support.” Settling myself on the other lounge chair, I took a sip of my bourbon-rocks. “Sure you don’t want a drink?” I asked, clinking the ice in an enticing manner.
“No can do. Marta might smell the liquor on my breath and then I’d never hear the end of it.”
“I know. I’m just razzing you.” Eric had stopped by my house after work to hang out for a bit, but he had to be at chorus practice at seven. I’d sung in his chorus over the summer and was well aware that Marta, the choral director—as well as my new cycling buddy—did not approve of any imbibing prior to rehearsals. “Mmmmm. Delicious!” I said, taking another sip. I figured he deserved the teasing, given the lack of sympathy he was displaying for my dad’s colossal political blunder.
“But I wouldn’t mind a glass of ice water.” Eric leaned back luxuriously in his chair, extending a hand to shade his eyes from the late-afternoon sun. “And maybe a hat, too?”
“Fine.” I got up again and went inside, Buster following after, and returned with the water and a straw cowboy hat from my bedroom closet.
Eric accepted the hat with a grin. “Howdy, pard,” he said, tugging at its wide brim. “Where’d this come from?”
“It was Aunt Letta’s. I think she got it in Mexico.”
We sat without speaking for a few moments, enjoying the garden. My aunt, who’d lived here before me, hadn’t been an expert landscaper or anything like that, but she did have a good eye for design. Along the edge of the brick patio was a low box hedge (which I did my best to maintain in its neatly clipped condition), interrupted at several points by brick planters overflowing with red-and-yellow lantana, pink geraniums, and purple salvia.
Beyond the hedge had once been a lawn, but with our ongoing drought and resultant water restrictions, Letta had let it die back. I was thinking of replacing the area with some sort of xeriscape, perhaps a rock garden interspersed with cactus and colorful succulents. But for now, the dead grass wasn’t all that bad. And the aging fruit trees along its periphery, their oft-pruned limbs reaching out like the gnarled fingers of some fairytale crone, were a
blaze with autumn colors.
“Hey, you want to maybe paint for a while?” I asked. “Check out the orange fruit and leaves on that persimmon tree over there, and the cool shadow they’re casting on the fence.”
“Sure, why not? I still have over an hour before I have to leave.”
I fetched paper, paints, brushes, and two tin plates and placed two jars of water between us—one for mixing paints and one for cleaning our brushes. Rather than messing with easels (I had only one, in any case), we simply set the paper down on our lounge chairs.
The sun was low, imparting a yellow patina to the world, and the sky was a rich, cobalt blue. But this magical lighting wouldn’t last long; we’d have to work fast, painting sketches rather than full-blown landscapes.
Squeezing a ribbon of cadmium red gouache onto my plate, I glanced over to see what Eric had decided upon as a subject. He was roughing out what looked to be the ramshackle toolshed in the far corner of the yard, its weathered white boards glowing in the late-afternoon light. His lips were pursed in thought and he’d tipped Letta’s cowboy hat back, allowing several strands of blond hair to spill out over his forehead.
“Did you know that Paul Gauguin used to wear a Stetson while painting?” I asked.
Eric looked up from his work. “Really?”
“Yeah. I read about it in that biography I told you about. He apparently bought it at the Wild West show they had at the world’s fair in Paris—the same one they built the Eiffel Tower for.”
“Well, I am in ze good company, zen,” Eric said in a fake French accent.
I picked up my brush and dipped it in water. “I don’t know how long he kept it, but I did read that he took it with him to Tahiti. The locals there apparently thought he was a pretty queer duck when he first came, what with his big ol’ cowboy hat and long hair. In fact, the guy who wrote the book says they thought he might really be queer—mahu, they called it.”
