Slashing Mona Lisa

by D. M. Barr

  “Austin, tell your brother to fuck himself.” Fletcher was already feeling no pain, thanks to the three jiggers of Glenlivet they’d each downed at the bar.

  “I’d prefer to relay that information after it’s too late for the waiter to spit in our entrees,” Austin shot back. “Order the baked lobster, by the way. They serve it with a white corn polenta and a red-wine gumbo sauce. It’s amazing.”

  “Hans, you didn’t tell me you were married to fucking Chef Ramsay. Tell us, Gordon, do the scallops have a nice sear on them?” Fletcher was so proud of his Hell’s Kitchen reference, delivered in his best mock British accent, he broke into an unstoppable laughing jag.

  Dallas threw them an annoyed look.

  Fletcher held up his middle finger in response. “Happy, sad, happy, sad. Mr. Dallas can’t decide what to be angrier about. And what’s with your parents’ obsession with Texas anyway? Are San Antonio and Galveston going to wander out from the kitchen any time soon?”

  “I think we’d better keep it down, guys, before they throw us out of here,” Austin said, hand-signaling to his brother to keep his distance, that all was under control. “Really, Lyle, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”

  Wynan took a piece of warm bread from the basket. “You’ve just never seen him take a chance and not come out ahead. He’s the fucking golden boy, and he just got tarnished by a gal half his age.”

  “Almost half,” Fletcher said with mock indignation. “I’m not even forty. She’s twenty-two. It’s far more respectable than you’re making it out to be.” The absurdity of the entire situation suddenly struck, and he again collapsed into guffaws.

  The waiter attempted to take their orders, clearly trying his best to mask his scorn at their inappropriate howls and chuckles. Diners at surrounding tables cringed in disapproval at the disrespectful display, which continued unabated until their food arrived.

  “Seriously, Lyle,” said Wynan, once their dinner started dampening the effects of the alcohol. “She’s pretty and all, but what made you think that some stranger on Metro North could advocate better for the magazine than I could?”

  Fletcher’s mood flip-flopped from lighthearted to somber. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Don’t be offended. It could happen to anyone. Lonely widower with deep pockets and his very own fashion magazine, sitting alone on a train. Enter a sexy, little flirt who proceeds to sidle up beside him and chat him up. What do you know? She happens to be looking for a job at a magazine. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, instant payday.”

  Fletcher blinked twice. “Trust me, you have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, trying to keep his anger down to a simmer. “Yes, I admit I was attracted to her, but not just because she was pretty. She showed compassion and courage. I approached her. I suggested the job. At the time, she had absolutely no interest in working for something as trivial as Trend, so I told her about our new editorial direction, which is something I’d been contemplating anyway. Believe me, we’re lucky to have her.”

  “It was all your idea?” Hans still seemed skeptical.

  “It was the only thing I could say that would make her even consider the job. I admit I was smitten. It’s ironic, huh? I hired her because, crazy or not, I wanted to get to know her better, and as it turns out, she’s going to help my magazine more than my love life.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Wynan stared down at his plate.

  “I hate when that happens,” Austin interjected.

  “Fuck you,” responded Wynan and Fletcher in unison.

  “My concern still stands,” said Wynan. “We’re a fashion and gossip magazine. You called me in to tweak it into a more profitable piece of fluff, not transform it into Newsweek. You can’t succeed by pretending to be something you’re not.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “What then?”

  “Hans, I don’t want to go into it right now.” Drunk as he was after downing a half-bottle of expensive whiskey, he still wasn’t so far gone as to launch into an explanation of his plot against Lehming Brothers.

  Austin interrupted the discourse by waving his American Express card in the air, trying to attract the waiter’s attention. “It’s on me tonight, gentlemen. We haven’t had the chance to spend so much quality time together since before Marg…well, not for a long time. And it’s my way of apologizing for Hans’s appalling mangling of the facts.”

  “I still have time to redeem myself,” Wynan said, ignoring his partner’s sarcastic jab. “Lyle’s in no condition— physically or mentally—to go home alone. You’re bunking in with us tonight, buddy.”

  “No rush though. The evening isn’t over yet,” added Austin. “I heard there’s some piano bar in the hotel around the corner. Let’s order another round here and then head over there for a nightcap. Get us all back into a more jovial mood.”

  * * * *

  Benji’s was packed—probably because some famed Florida-based dueling-piano player named Orin Sands was sitting in with the band—so Wynan had to slip the host a fifty to bypass the mob. The inebriated trio bumped and collided their way through rows of seated customers before squeezing in at a table of fourteen toward the front.

  Fletcher normally hated crowds, but tonight he wanted to surround himself with as many distractions as possible. Through blurred vision, he attempted to focus on the two pianists under the spotlight—one African American with undeniable stage presence, and the other, an intense, curly-haired version of Richie Sambora in his heyday.

  Fletcher closed his eyes as they pounded out Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now on the keyboards, trying to lose himself in the frenetic beat and the crowd’s fervent cheers. But a sense of loss kept nagging at him. Not one as profound as the night he found his wife’s lifeless body, but a loss all the same. While not quite the lovelorn patsy of Hans’s narrative, he was indeed lonely.

  The song ended, and DeAndre introduced himself as the ‘ebony half’ of the team. “You’re a great crowd. Don’t forget to tip your waitresses, and keep those requests coming. The ones with the twenties are the ones that usually get played first.”

  Then he pointed over to Orin, his ivory counterpart, who launched into a rousing version of Billy Joel’s Only the Good Die Young.

  “You look like you could use a refill, buddy,” shouted Wynan over the chorus. “You want another scotch?”

  Orin’s musical account of Virginia, the Catholic girl who hid behind religious dogma and watched potential passion pass her by, just depressed Fletcher even more. “The usual,” he shouted back. “Make it a double.”

  * * * *

  Camarin didn’t think the night could get much more chaotic. They were two waitresses short, prompting impatient customers to crowd the bar, demanding their drinks. And whichever highbrow industry spawned this week’s obnoxious crop of conventioneers, she was not amused. Every order came packaged with some lame pickup line.

  “Hey, baby, was your mother a beaver? ’Cause damn!”

  “Hi, honey. Your tits remind me of Mount Rushmore—my face should be among them.”

  “Your nickname must be ‘appendix.’ This feeling you’re giving me really makes me want to take you out.”

  Any other shift, she’d reply with a zinger of her own, but on this particular night her patience had been stretched to its limits. Dealing with Wynan all day had been bad enough. Compounded with having to turn down Lyle’s offer of a night out? She gave up silent thanks as the band wrapped up Virginia’s tale of woe and went on break, dropping the noise level by several decibels.

  She turned her back to the clients, checking the shelves for a bottle of Captain Morgan, when behind her she heard a man’s voice call out, “Three doubles, miss. Glenlivet, please.” The request had been polite and respectful, but it came at the wrong time on the wrong night, and it tipped her over the edge.

  “Why?” she retorted, spinning back around to face her heckler. “You want to ‘whisk-ey’
me away?”

  “A little over dram-atic, no?” Wynan punned back with a cat’s-got-the-canary smile.

  Camarin took a double-take and felt her stomach fall. Fuck! What else could possibly go wrong tonight? And this, the one thing she’d been determined to avoid, her boss learning the secret about her having a second job.

  “I-I-I didn’t know it was you,” she stammered and then fumbled for the bottle of scotch.

  “I figured. Don’t sweat it.” He looked around the club. “So, this is where you ran off to.”

  Annalise, dressed as inappropriately as usual for her waitressing duties, pushed through the masses and leaned up against the bar. “Cam, I need one vodka tonic, two chardonnays, and a tequila sunrise.” Then she looked at Hans. “This guy giving you trouble?”

  “No, I’m good. Could you give that order to Viviana? I need to take a break.” And then, fighting off an urge to run off and hide under a rock, she addressed Wynan. “Please come into the back. Give me a chance to explain.”

  She led him to a quieter, staff-only area where the club kept its liquor inventory and the barbacks washed the glassware.

  “Why didn’t you tell any of us you had another job?” he asked over the sound of running water and employee murmurs.

  She steeled her trembling hands. “I didn’t want you to think that I wasn’t devoting all of my attention to Trend. I can handle both, I promise.”

  “What you do during your off-hours is your business. But when you’re at the magazine, you need to be awake, alert, and focused. What if you find you can’t?”

  “I’ll give this up if I have to. I’m just hoping that won’t be necessary. We really need the money right now.”

  “We? Who’s we? You married?”

  She noticed a strange, almost accusatory look in his eyes. Why would he care if she was married? Was he asking for himself, or perhaps for a friend? “No. Of course not. I have two roommates. Maybe you saw one of them at the bar—that woman in the hideous tiger-print bodysuit? That’s Annalise. And the guy with the dreadlocks, rocking it on stage? That’s DeAndre. We share a place in the East Village, and they just hiked the rent, so we’re doing what we can to get by.”

  “I see.”

  One of the barbacks dropped a tray of glasses, and they shattered in a thousand different directions as they hit the floor. The others started applauding. Camarin shushed them and beckoned Wynan to join her in a less shard-ridden section of the staging area.

  “Is this going to be a problem?” she asked. It was more of a dare than a question, but she was so damn sick of apologizing to everyone for everything. Maybe she was overplaying her hand, especially since he had her at a disadvantage, but if she didn’t start asserting herself now, she might not have another chance later.

  “I’ll make you a deal. You keep giving me your best work, and there won’t be any issues. But if I sense that you’re burning the candle at both ends, you’re going to have to make a choice. Fair?”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “More than fair. Thank you. Can we keep this just between us?”

  “I won’t breathe a word. But there is one other thing.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, trying to downplay her sense of foreboding.

  “I need you to serve those three scotches to our table. Not some other waitress, you.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask questions and we’ll get along swimmingly. Deal?”

  The request seemed suspicious, but she had no recourse but to comply. He held all the cards. “Fine. I’ll swap spots with Annalise for an hour or so. Maybe no one will notice.”

  “Only one person needs to,” she heard Wynan murmur as he returned to his seat.

  Shit! Camarin slumped against the wall, willing her pulse to slow. If one day Hans Wynan arbitrarily decided he no longer wanted her at Trend, he now had the ammunition he needed to control, blackmail, even fire her.

  According to Fletcher, they’d known each other for years. If Wynan wanted to keep her at the copy desk forever, who was Fletcher going to listen to? His old friend, or the new girl with her focus skewed between two jobs? And what did this guy have against her anyway?

  Nerves rattled, she ventured out of the staging area and found Annalise.

  “I’ll explain later. I just have to trade duties with you for a little while and serve some drinks to one table.”

  “Hey, be my guest. I’m sure my tips will be better behind the bar anyway.”

  “Great, pour me three double scotches—Glenlivet, I think he said—and I’ll take them over.”

  Camarin frantically scanned the audience, trying to figure out where Wynan and his party were sitting. It didn’t help that the light show on stage backing up Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean alternately bathed the audience in blues, then greens, then purples.

  Annalise handed her the tray bearing three tumblers filled with amber. “End of table four, I watched him as he walked back.”

  “I owe you big time.”

  “Just remember old Anna when you’re the next Katie Couric and I’m still stuck here, waiting tables.”

  Camarin maneuvered her way through two hundred jeering, rowdy revelers, ignoring the calls of the patrons trying to wave her down for drink orders. She finally saw the back of Wynan’s head. She didn’t recognize the person sitting opposite, an elegant man with jet-black hair and angular features. He reminded her of an elegantly dressed, slightly older John Cho. The silver-haired, bearded man to his left…

  Fucker! Sure, Wynan wasn’t going to breathe a word about her working two jobs. He was going to make sure she outed herself to Fletcher, here, tonight. She felt her blood pressure soar, and any deference she’d felt toward the editor melted away under the heat of her anger. To hell with all of them. She didn’t have to answer to anyone for what she did after work hours. If Wynan wanted war, bring it on. But she had the power of seduction on her side. There was no fiercer warrior than a Chamorro, especially a flirtatious one.

  A thin one, perhaps. But not you, Camarin. Not you.

  “Here you go, boys,” Camarin said, ignoring Monaeka’s perpetually derogatory voice as she arrived at the table.

  Fletcher gawked in seeming disbelief. She served Wynan first, then his friend, leaving her boss for last.

  “Mr. Fletcher, it’s a pleasure to see you.” She crouched by the side of his chair so she could whisper directly into his ear as she set the third drink down next to him. “Yours is last because it’s extra special.”

  “Ca-Camwin?”

  Pupils glassed over, cheeks flushed, slurred speech. She had never imagined he could be so vulnerable and out of control, and she didn’t like it. He didn’t need a temptress—he needed a caretaker.

  “That’s it. No more liquor for you. Let’s go get some air.”

  There was no pushback from his companions who, with scotch in their hands, were oblivious to anything except the show on stage. She pulled Fletcher up and, with his arm around her shoulders and hers wrapped around his waist, guided his staggering body through the aisles and out the front. He complied, as docile as an exhausted three-year-old leaving the park with his nanny. They stopped a few yards past the door to avoid the lengthy line of eager merrymakers still waiting to get inside.

  She waved to get the bouncer’s attention. “Gary, inebriated customer here. Can you get Annalise or one of the other waitresses to bring us something to eat? Anything to sop up the alcohol.”

  Gary nodded and hurried inside.

  Fletcher sagged against the club’s brick exterior, staring blankly ahead. A vigilant Camarin remained by his side, prepared to prop him up should he slump farther. “Take deep breaths,” she counseled him. “The cool night air will help until we get some food into you.”

  Gary returned with a chicken wrap and a cold glass of water. Fletcher was staring off into the stars. She whistled to get her boss’s attention.

  “Hey, Mr. Glenlivet? Yes, you. Eat this. It will help sober you up.” She held half
a wrap up to his mouth, and he took one bite, then another.

  She kept silent until he finished both halves and drank the entire glass of water.

  “Better? Night air helping a little?”

  Fletcher shook his head, clearly embarrassed. “I’m so sorry you had to see me like this, Ms. Torres.”

  “Oh, please. This kind of thing happens every night. One drink too many. And call me Camarin. Please. Or even Cam, if you like.”

  “Is that what your friends call you? Cam?” His voice was weak, but he was starting to sound more like himself again.

  “Cam, Cammie. My mom calls me Camarita.”

  “And do you take such loving care of every customer who overdoes it…Cam?”

  Maybe it was the food, or time away from the scotch, but his speech was clearer and his eyes better focused. She allowed herself to relax a little.

  “Not every customer, no,” she said shyly. “Do you feel well enough to go back inside, Mr. Fl—Lyle?”

  “In a minute. Tell me, is this why you ran out of our meeting today? You work here at night?”

  It was the topic she’d hoped to avoid, but now she had no choice but to come clean. Perhaps she could mitigate the damage? “Some nights, yes. I hope that’s okay. I promise to devote every hour during the day to improving Trend.”

  “I have no doubt. I’m just relieved.”

  “Relieved? About what?”

  “It’s silly.” He looked down at the ground and then up at her again with hopeful eyes.

  She smiled, which he must have interpreted as encouragement, because he slowly reached out and touched her shoulder. Her skin pulsated with desire beneath his fingertips.

  “I doubt anything you’d do would be silly,” she purred.

  He ran his hand down her arm, and she bit her lip in eagerness. Then, as if suddenly spooked, he pulled away and looked down at the cement. “I don’t deserve your kind attentions,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe I’m not the person you think I am.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

  He looked back up and stared into her eyes with an expression she interpreted as a cry for understanding and forgiveness that touched her heart. Setting aside her earlier misgivings, she inched closer, her hunger for him growing. He lifted his hand and ran it slowly through her hair, studying each strand like it was something he’d never seen before. She moaned softly and ran a finger along his cheek to where it brushed against the bristles of his beard. The air between them grew electric with anticipation.