Finally in my office with the door closed, Cassandra said, “Do you want the bad news, the badder news, or the baddest news?”
“Isn’t that supposed to be the bad news or the good news?”
“Not tonight,” she said.
“Start with the bad and build up.”
“Okay. Mr. Politano informed me this afternoon that he was doubling the price of corn. He gave me some bullshit about crops being depleted because they’re being used for ethanol.”
“That may be true,” I said. “But doubling is a little much.”
“I told him he could stick his corn up his ass,” she said.
“It might be more practical to make ethanol with it,” I said. “How much corn do we use, anyway?”
“That’s beside the point,” she said. “May I continue?”
“If I said no, would you stop?”
“When Mr. Politano got tired of shouting Sicilian curses at me, he said he wouldn’t sell us any more produce at any price. So I was forced to phone an acquaintance, Mr. Tamonia.”
“The one who runs the book on Forty-fourth and breaks kneecaps?”
“Exactly. I got him to convince Mr. Politano to continue providing us with produce, including corn. The corn would be at a forty percent hike, from which, I presume, Mr. Tamonia will take his cut. It’s still less than we’d be paying if I’d just bent over and spread for Mr. Politano. I hope all of this is okay with you.”
“Sounds fine,” I said. “Is Mr. Tamonia the badder news?
“No. It’s that dickwad Philip Rodell.…”
“The dickwad who happens to be the number-one hotshot in the district attorney’s office. The dickwad who put the Calibrio Family in the jug.”
“Whatever. He threw a hissy out front tonight.”
“Because …?”
“He waltzes in with his crew a little after eight. Three couples. No reservation. Just, ‘Seat us in a private room, sugar tits.’ Classy, huh? I tell him the private rooms are occupied, as is the main room, and, though it galls the crap out of me, I offer to set something up in the lounge for him. He tells me he doesn’t eat in lounges. He orders me to move one of our private-room parties to the lounge and give him that room.”
“I hope you didn’t suggest he shove anything up his ass.”
“Of course not. I told him to fuck off.”
“How’d that work out?”
She blinked her sky-blue eyes. “He called me a few names and demanded to talk with you. I told him you weren’t around and suggested he move on. He, in turn, threatened to keep sending health and fire inspectors until they find some reason to close us down.”
“That could be a problem.”
“I … don’t think so. I showed him the security camera we have over the front door. I asked if he thought his wife might like a copy of his entrance with his crew.”
“He wasn’t with his wife,” I said.
“Not unless he’s married to a thousand-dollar-a-night hooker.”
“What is it with these fighting lawmen, can’t keep it zipped? Well, you seem to have things in hand, Cassandra. Why’d you text me?”
“Because of the baddest news,” she said. “Juan hit Bridget.”
Juan Lorinda had spent two tours in Iraq with the other members of his National Guard unit. During the second, he’d lost his right leg to a suicide bomber. He’d been working behind the bar for five months. Bridget Innes had been waitressing at the Bistro for more than a year. She was not a bad server, but she regularly ignored a rule I’d established about not dating customers.
“Just a slap,” Cassandra said. “But enough to leave a red splotch on her cheek. She cried and tried to hit him with her tray, but I intervened.”
“This happen in the bar, in front of customers?”
“It was early. Just a couple of martini drinkers. They seemed to like the show. I told Bridget she could take the night off, but she preferred to stay. So I sent Juan home and put Josef on bar detail. Didn’t want whatever it was to start up again.”
“Juan go quietly?”
“Like a lamb. He tried to apologize to her, but Bridget wasn’t in a forgiving mood. Some temper on that girl.”
“Lovers’ quarrel?” I asked.
Cassandra held up a hand. “When you hired me, Billy, I told you I’d take care of every aspect of the Bistro except for one. I do not get involved in HR matters.”
“Forget human relations. Were they sleeping together? Or was it something else?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care. I have presented you with the problem, which is as far as I go.”
“Well, hell … I guess you’d better send her up,” I said. “And while you’re at it, have her bring me a roast beef on rye and a glass of merlot. The Altadon 2002.”
“Sure you wouldn’t rather the Cristal ’99?” she asked.
I stuck my tongue out at her departing back.
Fearless, that’s me.