Bobby took a bus to Capitol Hill and walked along Broadway, searching for Molino Restaurant. Everything seemed cleaner here compared to his dumpy hotel in Pioneer Square, and he did a double-take when he saw two men holding hands. He thought, A homo neighborhood? Then it made sense: if Jake was hiding out, here would be a good place.
Bobby found the restaurant, part of a small brick building, and stopped at the front window. It was open for lunch, most of the tables filled, and he was getting hungry. Rather than go in and possibly expose himself to Jake, Bobby decided to locate the rear entrance. He walked around the building until he saw parking spaces with the sign “Molino Restaurant and Capitol Video Employees Only!” He walked into the restaurant and found himself in a hallway next to a small locker room. A man was putting on a waiter’s uniform. Bobby said, “Hey, is Jake working today?”
The man, a young guy about Bobby’s age, with silver glasses, said, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in a while.”
Bobby thanked him and continued down the hall until he came into the kitchen, white-aproned cooks at the stove and counters, a row of different pasta and meat dishes heating under red lamps. A few people hurrying by glanced at Bobby, but didn’t say anything. He kept alert, expecting to see Jake any moment. A waitress ran in and said, “The specials are popular. Get ready for more.”
A cook at the stove raised his spatula.
Bobby didn’t see Jake and asked one of the chefs adding whipped cream to a dessert, “Is Jake here?”
“No, that flake hasn’t shown up in days. Where the hell is he?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby said. “Where’s the manager?”
“He’s helping in front. The guy in the suit.”
Bobby left the kitchen and walked out into the dining area. He saw the man in the suit on the phone and writing in a reservation book at the front counter. Bobby waited until the man hung up. Bobby approached and said, “I’m looking for Jake.”
The man answered. “You and me both. That guy left us shorthanded.”
“He hasn’t been in at all?”
“No, not since last week. He’s not answering his phone either. Who are you?”
“He owes me money.”
“Can’t help you. If you do find him, let him know he’s in trouble.”
“Did he have any friends here? Someone I can ask about where he might’ve gone?”
“Don’t think so. He was a quiet guy.”
“What did he do here?”
“Cold side chef—”
“He was a chef?”
The man shrugged. “Cold side is different. He just put together pastas.”
Bobby said, “Do the other chefs know him?”
“Why don’t you ask them?”
So Bobby did, but none of the chefs knew much. He realized that Jake had been very careful, and for the first time since all this had happened, Bobby wondered if he might not find him. Then it occurred to him that Ron might not get his money. Bobby could never return to L.A. Everything was fucked. His abdomen flared, the pain pulling down into his butt. He cursed quietly.
He saw a waitress going out the back for a smoking break and he followed her. He asked her if she knew Jake.
“I saw him around. He did long night shifts.”
“He didn’t have any friends here?”
“Not really.”
“He didn’t talk to anyone?”
She shrugged. “I think he had a brief thing with Arlene, but that was a while ago.”
“Who’s Arlene?”
“Another waitress.”
“Is she here?”
“Uh-uh. She’ll be in tonight, though.”
“What does she look like?”
“Short, thin. Long dirty blonde. Kind of mousy.”
“You got another cigarette?”
“Yeah, sure.” She tapped one out of the pack and handed it to him. She stopped and pointed to his stomach. “You’re bleeding.”
He looked down. Spots of blood were seeping into his shirt. “Shit,” he said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, walking towards the street. “Thanks for the smoke.”
“You want me to tell Arlene?”
“I’ll come by tonight,” he said.
Bobby hurried down the street, trying to fan his shirt to keep the blood off it. He ran into a Starbucks and pulled out a wad of paper napkins from the dispenser, and blotted the stitches. The pain worsened. He grimaced and limped out onto the street, ignoring the stares of the customers. Arlene, he thought. Mousy Arlene.