“You’ve been eating onions,” Cassandra said as I entered the Bistro. Her tone wouldn’t have been more accusatory if I’d broken several commandments.
“I was feeling deprived, so I treated Joe to a fine lunch at Le Haut Dog on Fifty-second.”
“Well, you reek,” she said.
“Thanks for sharing,” I said. “What’s your take on turduckens?”
She blinked. “You mean the chicken inside the duck inside the turkey? You’re asking the wrong person. I don’t even like mixing peas and mashed potatoes. Are you thinking of putting turducken on the menu?”
“No. I just … going to Jersey … Never mind. I’ll work it out. How’s business?”
“The weekend is looking good,” she said, walking with me to the rear stairwell. “I think all the murder talk is starting to help.”
“Say what?”
“It’s not just our cuisine that’s bringing them in. They’re curious. They want to see what a murder suspect looks like up close, Billy. People love bad boys.”
“Maybe I should wear a black turtleneck and an eye patch,” I said.
“I said bad boys, not pirates. Anyway, we’ll be at close to full capacity on Friday and Saturday nights,” she said.
“What about tonight and Thursday?”
“We’re at about seventy percent tonight, and your former squeeze’s assistant just reserved a private room. We’re in good shape.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“I’m surprised Ms. Di Voss isn’t still in mourning,” Cassandra said. “Maybe she’s like a praying mantis, strutting her stuff after the death of her mate.”
“You’re confusing your insects,” I said as we entered my office. “Praying mantises sort of hop, not strut. And they eat their mates, so it’s unlikely they’d feel the need to come to a restaurant.”
“You’re so literal, Billy,” she said. “The checks are on your desk. Please sign them today. But try not to breathe on them or they may wither and turn to dust.” She made an about-face and left me alone in my oniony literalness.
I slipped out of my jacket and draped it over the couch, rolled up my sleeves, and sat down at the desk to face the monthly stack of bills and accompanying checks. I booted up the computer and opened our accounting program. Then I began going through each bill and payment, double-checking Cassandra’s figures.
She did not make mistakes. And I spent the next hour or so proving it.
When I was finished, I considered what it might be like being the bad boy. I don’t think I qualified, even when I was younger and engaged in activities that were what some might call illegal.
I was momentarily distracted by the sight of my jacket, which I’d thrown carelessly on the office couch. I frowned, got out of the chair, and went to pick it up. I brushed the wrinkles away and placed it on a hanger. So much not the bad boy.
The coat’s heft reminded me that the late Rudy’s DVDs were still in the pockets. Before relegating it to the closet, I removed the jewel boxes, careful not to snag or tear the lining of the pockets. My plan had been to box and mail the disks to Melody Moon, but I decided it might be friendlier if I dropped them off myself when I had the chance. Do not misconstrue my motives. Melody was still seventeen, and I was not the bad boy. Though, I have to admit, I sometimes had bad-boy thoughts.
I opened a desk drawer and, to make room for the disks, pushed aside the junk I’d accumulated over the last half-dozen years. Dental floss, ear buds, an assortment of coins, Gem clips, key chains, a mirror, tiny knives, a plastic eyeball, nail clippers, triple-A batteries that were probably deader than Rudy, my business cards, hundreds of business cards from people with whom I’d never be doing business, ancient breath mints that were not so ancient that I didn’t pop two to combat the onions, plastic spoons, a small airline-size bottle of single-malt scotch.
And Rudy’s little black book.
I made a nest for the DVDs and picked up the black book. I’d just opened it when Cassandra returned to pick up the checks. She stared at the black book and shook her head sadly. “So old school, Billy. So depressingly old school.”
“Is there anything else you wanted?” I asked.
“Do you know a man named Parkhurst?”
“Ted? Sure. Why?”
“He’s in the bar. Says he’s a friend of yours. But he seems a little seedy to me.”
“Seedy?”
“Well, drunk.” She grabbed the stack of checks and bills and carried them away.
Without thinking about it, I put Rudy’s black book in my pocket, stood, grabbed my jacket from the hanger, and headed downstairs.