Six Crime Stories

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Of course, I still tend to think Starbulk's full of crap, because he wasn't right about one thing in particular.

  "What I did or didn't know is unimportant," he says, getting up off his chair and stepping over to stand beside me. "What matters is that my brother here saved the day and captured the infamous Gino Laplaca."

  Starbulk squeezes my shoulder and looks me in the eye with an expression of solemn sincerity. "Our father would be proud of you, Gerald," he says. "I'll bet that right at this very moment, Ben Boudreaux is looking down at you from Heaven with a great big smile on his face and a tear of joy in his eye."

  "Thank you," I say, patting his hand...not bothering to mention my dad's alive and well in Pittsburgh and his last name is Tangle.

  *****

  The Other Waiter

  When Jean-Claude LaSalle asked the man at Table Twelve what he would like to drink, the man said something about Dolly Parton's breast milk and told him to take a hike.

  Jean-Claude did not move a muscle. "Would you like to see a wine list, sir?" he asked smoothly, extending a leather-bound folder toward the bloated big mouth.

  The customer swatted the list aside with the back of his puffy hand, knocking it to the floor. "What part of 'take a hike' don't you fuckin' understand?" he said.

  Jean-Claude sniffed but remained rigidly in place. In his twenty-plus years as a waiter, he'd dealt with worse customers than this one. "Excuse me, sir," he said coolly. "Is something not to your liking?"

  "Yeah," said the man. "You."

  "Perhaps I should bring over the manager," said Jean-Claude, bowing slightly at the waist.

  When he turned, he saw that the manager, Mr. Darcy, was standing less than three feet behind him.

  The man at the table snort-laughed, wagging his baggy jowls. "That was quick," he said. "Too bad you're so slow on the uptake yourself, boy."

  Even though Darcy was near, Jean-Claude half-turned at the remark. Aged forty-six years, with not a trace of black remaining in his slicked-back silver hair, he could not imagine what grounds anyone could find for calling him "boy."

  "Jean-Claude," said Darcy, gesturing toward another table. "Would you please take care of Table Ten? Someone else will cover this table."

  Jean-Claude narrowed his eyes. "But this table is in my zone," he said.

  "Yes, yes," Darcy said impatiently. "And Mr. Donzatto has made special arrangements in advance."

  "Arrangements?" said Jean-Claude.

  "Here he comes now," said Donzatto, shifting his mountainous bulk to look in the direction of the men's washroom. "My own personal waiter."

  Stunned, Jean-Claude watched as the new arrival wobbled toward them on bowed legs. The waiter looked as ancient and shriveled as a hundred-year-old goatherd who'd just come down from the mountains. His uniform--white jacket and shirt, black bow tie and trousers--hung as loosely as bedsheets blown from a clothesline onto a dead sapling.

  "You wash 'em good, Zeno?" said Mr. Donzatto with a hearty chuckle. "Get off all the leftovers?"

  "Yes, sir," said Zeno the waiter, blinking beneath bushy, white brows like pasted-on cotton balls. He held up his bony claw hands and showed both sides to his boss. "Scrubbed like a surgeon."

  Donzatto laughed, then looked up at Jean-Claude and scowled. "Now scat, you," he said sharply. "Or do I have to have Zeno roll you outta here on a dessert cart?"

  Jean-Claude managed a thin smile and a stiff bow. "Enjoy your dinner, sir," he said pleasantly...but he flashed a contemptuous glare at wiry Zeno when Donzatto wasn't looking.

  Jean-Claude might have been new at the Sterling Room, but he was not about to let some scrawny little coot cheat him out of his rightful tips and get away with it. No fucking way.

  *****

  "Listen," said Darcy as he walked Jean-Claude away from Donzatto's table. "These people are V.I.P.s. We give them what they want."

  "So I gathered," said Jean-Claude, striding briskly toward Table Ten.

  Darcy caught his arm and held him for a moment. "Let me just say this," he said quietly. "They're connected. As connected as you can get."

  "Of course," said Jean-Claude.

  "He has to have his special waiter," said Darcy. "Takes him everywhere. Loves to eat, obviously, and loves to eat out, but has to have his waiter. Has to be careful, maybe. Know what I mean?"

  Jean-Claude moved his arm, and Darcy released his grip. "I've been working in this field for many years," said the waiter, straightening the sleeve of his black uniform jacket. "This is not the first time I've encountered this class of people."

  "Good, then," said Darcy, nodding. "I need you to back up this Zeno. Make sure he gets whatever he needs."

  Jean-Claude was too busy seething to acknowledge the instruction. As if it hadn't been enough of an indignity to be pulled from a table in his zone, now he was being told to serve as back-up for his replacement.

  "Remember," said Darcy. "Whatever Mr. Donzatto wants, Mr. Donzatto gets. I tell you this for your own good."

  "I understand," said Jean-Claude. Conveniently, he left out the part about agreeing to do what he was told.

  That way, he wouldn't be going back on a promise when he screwed over that personal waiter motherfucker.

  *****

  Jean-Claude wished he could have seen the old cripple slip on that grease and hit the floor, but he had to settle for the aftermath. As it worked out, Jean-Claude was stuck at Table Ten when it happened...but that wasn't such a bad thing. The less he was around when Grandpa Fuckhole had bad luck, the less likely it would be that someone would figure out that Jean-Claude was the one making the luck possible.

  "Oh my God!" said Jean-Claude, pretending to be surprised when he pushed through the swinging doors and saw Zeno sprawled flat on his back on the floor. "What happened?"

  Zeno propped himself up on his elbows and shook his head. "Slipped," he said with a sheepish smirk. "Now we really got a tossed salad, huh?"

  Feigning concern, Jean-Claude crouched beside him and brushed lettuce and breadcrumbs from his uniform. "You haven't hurt yourself, I hope?" he said, though he hoped for the opposite.

  "Nah, nah," said Zeno, reaching out a hand. "I get rougher than that from my old lady every night."

  Hiding his disappointment, Jean-Claude clasped the old man's hand and slowly pulled him to his feet. "So sorry," said Jean-Claude, brushing at Grandpa Fuckhole's uniform jacket. "You know how it is in a kitchen."

  "Oh, sure," Zeno said good-naturedly. "Once, I seen a guy lose his balls over a piece a' tripe."

  "Excuse me?" said Jean-Claude.

  Zeno nodded and grinned. "Slipped on this tripe and went over forwards. Right into a filet knife the chef was cleaning. How d'ya like that shit?"

  "Ouch," said Jean-Claude with half a phony wince...all the while wishing that Zeno could have been as unlucky in his own accident.

  "One spaghetti, hold the meatballs, huh?" said Zeno with a laugh.

  Jean-Claude smiled, but only because he was thinking about what he would do to the old man next.

  *****

  As the scalding hot bisque dumped onto Zeno's chest, Jean-Claude cried out. "Oh, God!" he said, fumbling at the overturned bowl as if he hadn't intended to knock the tray over on his way past.

  The steaming soup soaked through Zeno's jacket and shirt in an instant. He grimaced and sucked in air between clenched teeth as the heat oozed against his skin.

  As Jean-Claude chucked the bowl and Zeno's serving tray onto a countertop, Chef Dominick stepped over from the stove. "Call an ambulance," he said. "I'll get the first aid kit."

  "No," Zeno said firmly. "I'm fine. Just gimme a towel."

  "We've got to get you checked out," said Dominick. "You could have burns."

  "Sure I do," said the spindly geezer, pointing fingers at his short sideburns. "Here and here."

  Jean-Claude handed him a towel, and Zeno dabbed at the sopping red splotch on his white uniform. "I'll go find you something else to wear," said Jean-Claude.


  "Don't bother," said Zeno, tossing the bisque-soaked towel back to him. "Red's my favorite color."

  Jean-Claude shrugged, only too happy to let the old man walk around in a soiled uniform for the rest of the night. It was at least a small compensation for the fact that the old man wouldn't be riding away in an ambulance.

  "Now dish up some more of that bisque," he told Dominick. "Mr. Donzatto's a hungry man."

  "We'll have to make a note in the safety log," said Dominick. "You'll have to sign a release."

  "I got your safety log right here," said Zeno, clutching at his crotch. "Now where's that soup?"

  The chef snorted and smirked. "You win," he said, shaking his head.

  "Just do me one favor, you," said Zeno, pointing at Jean-Claude. "Stay clear till I get this soup out to Mr. Donzatto."

  Jean-Claude nodded. "Anything you want," he said, already thinking about what he was going to do to the old man next.

  *****

  Jean-Claude heard Zeno's wail of pain all the way back in the kitchen. It was the sweetest sound he had heard all day.

  He didn't look out the kitchen doors, and he didn't need to. He was doing just fine envisioning the scene in his mind, especially the look that must have been on Zeno's face when he'd picked up that platter.

  The platter that Jean-Claude had left on the stovetop a few seconds before using a potholder to place it on Zeno's serving tray.

  "What the hell was that?" said Dominick, charging through the doors with a spatula in his hand.

  Jean-Claude followed, fixing an expression of grim concern on his features. Underneath, of course, was a giant Cheshire Cat smile.

  Over at Table Twelve, Mr. Darcy was fussing over Zeno the waiter, gaping at his right hand. Mr. Donzatto kept his monstrous bulk attached to his chair; he watched the proceedings with what appeared to be a mixture of rage and boredom.

  "I'm just fine," said Zeno, bunching his bushy white brows in a grimace. "Mr. Donzatto will need a new filet mignon, though."

  "I'm so sorry, Mr. Donzatto," said Darcy. "How can we make this up to you?"

  "Blow job," said Donzatto. "Right fuckin' here and right fuckin' now."

  Darcy said nothing. He actually looked worried for a moment.

  Then, Donzatto laughed. "Just yankin' ya," he said. "But I had ya goin' there, didn't I?"

  "Yes, Mr. Donzatto," said Darcy.

  "Maybe some other time," said Donzatto, returning his attention to the banquet for one spread out before him. "Let's say dinner's on you and leave it at that."

  "Very good, Mr. Donzatto," said Darcy.

  Donzatto popped a plump scallop into his greasy lips and licked every finger on his hand. "Done and done," he said. "Dinner's on you for the rest of the year."

  Darcy hesitated for the tiniest fraction of a second. "The rest of the year," he said, staring at the seven entrees spread out on Table Twelve. "Yes. I understand."

  "So where's my motherfuckin' steak?" snapped Donzatto.

  Chef Dominick spun and hurried back through the kitchen doors, followed by Darcy. Jean-Claude stayed behind to express token concern for Zeno's injury...and savor the damage he'd inflicted on the old bastard.

  "I'll get the first aid kit," said Jean-Claude.

  "First aid is for pussies," said Zeno with a wicked smile.

  "And he ain't no pussy," said Mr. Donzatto, spit-laughing through a mouthful of baked potato. "But you sure got a taste for it, don't ya?"

  "Do I ever," said Zeno, bending down to pluck the dropped steak platter from the floor. Jean-Claude noted that he used his burned hand...and didn't flinch a bit. "Pussy, that is.

  "But pussies, not so much," said Zeno, giving Jean-Claude a funny look on his way to the kitchen.

  And that was enough to make Jean-Claude LaSalle wonder if the old fuck was onto him...but not enough to make him cancel the one last accident he had planned for dessert.

  *****

  Flames shot up from the cherries jubilee in a sudden surge, springing unexpectedly at the ancient waiter's face. Zeno screamed and stumbled backward, knocking over a table for two.

  Jean-Claude watched the action from Table Nine, where he was pouring coffee for a party of three. He noted with satisfaction that he had added enough extra alcohol to the cherries to boost the flames to the right height...and then some.

  His heart pounded as the old man screamed and clutched his face, staggering around the dining room. For the space of one more breath, Jean-Claude drank in the scene, relishing the suffering of the wasted old toothpick who had dared fuck him over on his own home ground.

  Then, he slammed down the coffee urn and raced over to join the rest of the staff in dealing with the emergency.

  "Call 911!" hollered Mr. Darcy, but Jean-Claude could see that the maitre de was already on the phone at his station.

  Chef Dominick brought a fire extinguisher from the kitchen, but it wasn't needed by the time he got to the table. The flames had already burned down to almost nothing in the tray on the dessert cart.

  While Darcy helped Zeno into a chair, a waitress ran into the back for the first aid kit. As far as Jean-Claude could see, there was really nothing left for him to do...which was fine with him.

  "Fuckin'-A," said Mr. Donzatto, still glued to his chair though at least he'd stopped eating. "What kind a fucked up fuckpit you runnin' here, anyway?"

  Jean-Claude crouched beside Zeno and put a hand on his knee. The old man moaned and rocked in his chair, holding onto his face like he was afraid it would fall off.

  He ended up being carted away by an ambulance, after all. His burns weren't all that severe, but bad enough to warrant a trip to the emergency room.

  So much for the substitute waiter. Jean-Claude had a feeling that Grandpa Fuckhole wouldn't set foot in his territory again any time soon.

  Which was exactly why he was so completely blown away when the old man showed up at the Sterling Room two hours later.

  *****

  Though it was after closing time, and the doors had been locked for fifteen minutes, Mr. Darcy ushered Donzatto and Zeno to a table in the dining room like it was the middle of the evening.

  As Jean-Claude looked up from the table he'd been setting on the other side of the room, he had his first inkling that something was wrong.

  Darcy pulled back a chair and Donzatto settled his bulk into it. The two men talked, but Jean-Claude could not make out what they were saying.

  Then, they both looked in his direction.

  Since the cherries jubilee incident, Jean-Claude had felt nothing but delight at the way he'd worked over Zeno. While going about his duties, he'd replayed the evening's events in his mind, savoring his victories, exaggerating them to stoke his ego.

  But all of a sudden, he began to wonder if he had gotten a little carried away.

  "Jean-Claude," said Darcy, waving him over. "Would you come here a minute, please?"

  Jean-Claude finished folding a napkin and rose from his chair. His feet felt heavy as he crossed the room.

  "Mr. Donzatto and I have business to discuss," said Darcy. "Mr. Zeno will be serving us coffee. Please take him to the kitchen and be sure he finds everything he needs."

  Suddenly, Jean-Claude's newfound uncertainty vaporized. Once again, he seethed with silent fury at having to play second fiddle to an unworthy intruder.

  Zeno stepped forward, his reddened nose and cheeks and forehead filmed over with some kind of white cream. His bushy white brows were peppered with blackened hairs singed by the flames from the cherries.

  "Lead on, partner," said Zeno, his tone surprisingly jaunty after what he'd been through that evening. "Let's find that java."

  Without a word, Jean-Claude led the old man into the kitchen.

  "What a crazy night, huh?" said Zeno as Jean-Claude headed for the coffee pot on the counter. "One fuckin' thing after another."

  Silently, Jean-Claude carried the pot to the sink. He filled the pot with water and walked back to the coffee station.

&nb
sp; "Is it like this every night?" said the old man. "A fuckin' disaster area?"

  "No," Jean-Claude said simply, placing the pot on the counter.

  "And are you always such a total fuckin' asshole?" said Zeno.

  Jean-Claude turned, fire in his eyes...and felt something hard and heavy collide with his head.

  Pain rushed through his skull as he toppled back and down. He struck an elbow against the stainless steel counter and then hit his head, too, before crashing to the floor.

  "My guess is yeah," said Zeno. "You always bein' an asshole, that is."

  Jean-Claude groaned and blinked, fighting the fresh waves of pain triggered by the fall against the counter. Squinting through flashes of light and color, he looked up to see Zeno standing above him, brandishing an iron skillet in his bony claws.

  "I've got news for you, shit-for-brains," said the old man. "I'm a total fuckin' asshole, too."

  Just as Jean-Claude was trying to pull himself together, Zeno hauled off and swung the skillet against his head again. Jean-Claude went over sideways, his skull smacking the floor.

  "Do you know who I am, dick-cheese?" said Zeno. "Well, I ain't no fuckwad waiter."

  Jean-Claude opened his eyes, but his vision was blurry. He couldn't quite raise his head from the floor to look at his attacker.

  "I'm the boss, dumbfuck!" shouted Zeno. "The fatass I was waitin' on is the errand boy! Get it?"

  When Jean-Claude managed to pry his head from the floor, he glimpsed the blurred form of the old man. He could tell Zeno was holding something, but he couldn't make out what it was.