“Yet you’re always in the newsroom before noon unless you’re out on a story. How does ten sound to you?”
“Great,” Quinn said unenthusiastically.
“Talk to you Monday, then.”
“Sure thing, lapdog,” Quinn muttered under his breath.
Quinn returned to the table, where his cronies were anxiously waiting.
“Well?” Rogan asked. “How’d it go?”
“I told him he belonged at Barzini’s.”
“And—?” Shep asked.
“He’ll probably keep coming here, just to bust our balls. Of course, the fact that this place is ten times homier than Barzini’s doesn’t help.”
“Once he tastes your mother’s cooking, we’re screwed,” said Durham.
“Did you see the way he was looking at your ‘friend,’ Quinn?” Durham continued, nudging Quinn in the ribs. “I think he wants a piece, too.”
Quinn shut him down with a glare.
Rodriguez was still watching Clement at the bar. “God, I hate that prick already.”
Quinn drained his Guinness. “Join the club.”
5
“It was horrible, Vivi. Just horrible.”
It was Saturday morning, the day after Natalie’s first night working at the Wild Hart. She was sitting on Vivi’s couch, clutching a mug of coffee. She hadn’t finished moving all her things from Bensonhurst to Manhattan yet, and Anthony Dante had graciously offered to load the remainder of her possessions in his SUV and drive her into the city, where he and Vivi would help her unpack. So here she was, up bright and early, since both Anthony and Vivi needed to be back at their restaurants at a reasonable hour.
Vivi came and sat beside her, pushing aside a pile of Bride magazines on the coffee table so she had room to put her coffee mug down.
“Tell me why it was horrible.”
“The regulars are all crazy! There’s a woman there with a parrot. A parrot! Who speaks! And a man who never shuts up. Another who never says a word. And some crazy poor writer talking about leprechauns. Oh! There’s a TV in the bar, too. And Irish music playing in the background. I can barely hear myself think.”
“In other words, the bar is a bar. There have to be some sane people there.”
“I suppose,” Natalie sniffed begrudgingly. “A lot of police and firemen. But they’re loud, too.”
“What about the people who come to eat?”
“They seem nice enough, but I have to tell you, every time I look down at those plates heaped high with potatoes of some kind and beef swimming in gravy, I get a little sick. It’s not food. Yet people seem to love it.”
“It’s a different type of food, Natalie. That’s all.”
“Well, it will never pass my lips.”
“I doubt that.”
Vivi raised her coffee cup to her lips, smiling impishly at Natalie over the rim. “Was Quinn there?”
Natalie sighed. “Yes. He came in very late with some of his fellow reporters. What a loud, boorish bunch. Like him, they all look like they sleep in their clothes. I could hear them laughing even when I was in the bar.” She sipped her coffee, thoughtful. “One very cultured man came in. His name was Mason Clement. He’s Quinn’s boss. He had a very nice Australian accent.”
“Funny, you never think of Quinn having a boss,” Vivi mused.
“No.” Natalie paused. “Quinn’s younger brother, Liam, is the bartender. He seems nice, though a little terse at times. No one seems to mind, though. Not the regulars anyway. They seem to enjoy it when he insults them.”
“Ah, so you should fit right in.”
“Very funny.”
“How did you do in tips?”
“Very well,” Natalie grumbled.
“You have nothing to complain about, then.”
“But the clientele—”
“For God’s sake, Natalie, stop being such a snob! It’s an Irish pub. Who do you expect to walk through the door? The rich and famous?”
“No,” Natalie replied defensively, “but the people seem a little more déclassé than the customers who come to Vivi’s.”
Vivi threw up her hands in frustration. “You’ve worked there for one night! Anthony’s been there with Sean—you know, the firefighter who’s married to his cousin, Gemma? He says it’s a wonderful place. Very warm and welcoming.”
“I suppose,” Natalie muttered.
“Just give it a chance. Besides, aren’t you happy you still get to see Quinn?”
“I couldn’t care less,” Natalie replied nonchalantly.
Vivi just laughed.
Quinn loved going to the Sent’s newsroom, no matter what time of the day or night. Though things were slower in the morning than late in the afternoon and evening, there was always someone scrambling to finish things up before deadline or trying to get that one extra tidbit of info to add to an article that would squeeze the competition’s balls and make them howl.
Today, however, the usual rush he got from entering the fluorescent-lit rat hole was absent, thanks to his having to meet with Mason Clement.
“Whoa, look what the cat dragged in,” his editor Cindy said, balancing a phone receiver on her shoulder.
“Not the cat—Clement,” Quinn grumbled, the morning edition of the Sent tucked under his arm.
“Clement, huh?” Cindy said, rolling her eyes. “You poor bastard. Though I do think his accent is kind of sexy.”
“You’re pathetic.” Quinn gestured at the phone. “Who you on hold for?”
“I’m waiting for some asshole over at Police Plaza to let me know when the kid who whaled on the old lady is doing the shame walk.”
Quinn wondered which staff photographer she’d cajoled out this early to stake out the shack to get a photo of the kid being paraded into a vehicle to be transferred to jail.
Cindy looked amused as she regarded Quinn. “I heard there was some serious cock blocking going on between you and Clement at the Hart Friday night.”
Quinn thrust his head forward as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “What? Who told you that?”
“Rodriguez.”
“Excuse me a minute.”
Quinn went over to his good buddy’s cubicle. Like Quinn, Rodriguez rarely needed to get to the paper early, but he always did, probably because his marriage was on the rocks and he just wanted to get the hell out of the house.
“What’s this I hear about you telling Cindy that Clement and I were cock blocking?”
“You were,” said Rodriguez, thumbing through the New York Globe. Every reporter and every editor read every edition of the competition’s papers. It was an unspoken job requirement.
“Bullshit,” said Quinn, looking over Rodriquez’s shoulders at the hockey standings. The Blades were six and oh, their best start in a few years.
Rodriquez glanced up at him. “Bullshit yourself, man. You went over to him to defend your turf.”
“Our turf,” Quinn corrected. “You really want him to start hanging out at the Hart?”
“O’Brien, you hustled over there the minute you saw him talking to your ‘friend.’ ”
“Kiss my pale white Irish ass. I would have gone over there anyway.” Bullshit, whispered a little voice in his head. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Natalie was the reason he’d gone over to Clement. Defending the Hart as the reporters’ lair just provided a convenient excuse. Quinn smothered the taunting voice inside.
“Did you hear what I said?” Quinn asked.
“Yeah, right, whatever; you keep telling yourself you went over for our sake,” Rodriquez said wearily. He stood up.
“Where you going?”
“Interview with Ty Gallagher. You know how many goals he scored in his career?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me right now,” Quinn said dryly.
“Three hundred twenty-eight. Do you have any idea how amazing that is?” He blew his nose loudly into a balled-up handkerchief and stuffed it back into his pocket. “You here to talk to our fearles
s leader?”
“Yeah. Apparently Cindy thinks his accent is sexy.”
“Sad. I wonder how sexy she’ll find it when he brings the hammer down on her.”
“No shit.”
Quinn checked his watch. “It’s ten now. Think I’ll let him cool his heels for a few minutes.”
Rodriquez chuckled admiringly. “You were born a ball-buster, and you’ll die one.”
Quinn put his hand over his heart. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, honey.”
“Catch you tonight at the Hart.” Rodriquez pointed to the closed door of Clement’s office. “Have fun.”
“Oh yeah,” Quinn said sarcastically. “Let the good times roll.”
Quinn didn’t bother to knock before entering Clement’s office. Clement, studiedly casual, was leaning back in his chair, feet up on the desk, ankles crossed. He was reading the New York Globe, the city’s trashiest newspaper. Quinn wasn’t surprised.
“You wanted to talk to me?”
Quinn was disgusted by how quickly Clement had rid the space of all traces of his predecessor. The office felt sterile now. Corporate. The stale smell of cigarette smoke was gone, the piles of newspapers going back months done away with. You could actually see the desk. The only things that remained were framed blowups on the walls of some of the Sent’s best covers.
Clement’s feet came back down to earth as he folded up the edition of the Globe on his desk. He gestured at one of the chairs before him. “Have a seat.”
“I prefer to stand, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He picked up that morning’s issue of the Sent. “As I said Friday night: good reporting.”
“Thanks. Is that why you called me in? To compliment me?”
“No, I called you in because I need to make something clear to you.”
Quinn folded his arms, leery. “What’s that?”
“I saw how unhappy you looked at the staff meeting the other day when I talked about the Hewitt Corporation wanting to take this paper in another direction.”
“You mean into the gutter?”
Clement laughed softly. “Can we try not to make this antagonistic? I think it would make all our jobs easier.”
“Fine.”
“You’ve been in this business a long time, O’Brien. I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that traditional newspapers are dying. The Internet and cable are killing us. For papers to survive today they’ve either got to be upscale or down-market. For us that’s going to mean more sex and more celebrities. That’s what sells.”
“So do stories about real life. Stories that matter. Two million people read our paper every day. Know why? Because we’re a quality tab that lets them know what’s going on in their city, in their lives. The city already has the New York Globe for the readers who want nonstop tits and rehab. Newspapers are like a cafeteria, okay? You start serving the same thing, people will stop reading, period.”
“The Sent’s numbers are already down.”
“Oh, and you think boobs on page three and gossip about which actor is banging which actress is going to help?”
“It helped the Globe.”
“We’re not the Globe,” Quinn reiterated. “We’re the Sentinel, the workingman’s paper.”
“Well, right now the workingman isn’t buying enough papers. What matters most is selling papers.”
“To you and Hewitt.”
“Hewitt owns the paper now, Quinn,” Clement reminded him. “And if we don’t sell papers, we don’t get advertisers. And if we don’t get advertisers, none of you will have jobs. This is a business.” He was beginning to sound irritated.
“What do you want from me, Clement?”
“I’m not looking for you to become a convert. I admire your principles. I don’t want you to give them up. But I don’t want you flaming the sparks of dissent and leading a revolution out in the newsroom.”
“I hate to tell you this, but most of the staff already feel the same way I do.”
“That’ll only last until they realize their jobs might be on the line,” Clement said bluntly. “Look, we’d hate to lose you. You’re the best runner in the city, and everyone knows it. You can still keep covering ‘real life,’ but I need you to get with the program at some point and stay off the soapbox in the newsroom.”
“And if I don’t?”
Clement’s eyes flashed. “I’m your boss. You might want to remember that.”
Quinn gave a bored sigh. “That it?”
“For now.”
Quinn spun on his heel to go, but a split second later, he turned back to Clement. “About the Wild Hart.”
“What about it?”
“The reporters don’t want you hanging there. Seriously. You should be at Barzini’s.”
“Why is it so important to you I keep away from the pub, O’Brien? Your vehemence is a little over-the-top, don’t you think? Does it have to do with Natalie?”
He knew her name? Didn’t matter, he told himself. Shouldn’t matter. Did matter. Shit, Rodriquez was right: he had been cock blocking Clement.
“It has nothing to do with her,” Quinn scoffed. “I already told you: the Hart is where staff go to blow off steam after work. We can’t do that if you’re there, that’s all.”
“Ah. It’s about territory, not competition. You can close the door on the way out. Oh, and O’Brien?”
Quinn frowned. “Yeah?”
“See you later at the Hart.”
6
Thank you, Anthony, Natalie thought to herself as she made her way to Mon Plaisir, one of the oldest French restaurants in New York City. Anthony had culinary connections all over the five boroughs, and he’d found out through the grapevine that the restaurant was looking for a manager. Much to Natalie’s delight, he’d recommended her to the restaurant’s owner. So here she was, hurrying off to a 2 p.m. interview with a chef named Simon Grillet. French, Anthony had told her. Perhaps he’d interview her in their native tongue. That would be delightful.
The restaurant was large: two floors, both with fireplaces and strategically placed antiques to give it a feeling of warmth. She was no sooner through the door than Simon appeared, a short man with an extremely serious demeanor.
“Bonjour,” he said politely.
“Bonjour,” Natalie replied.
He ushered her to a small table. “Can I get you anything? Some water perhaps?”
All I need is a job, Natalie thought. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”
“So, how do you know Anthony Dante?” he asked, slipping easily from English into French. He had a Normandy accent.
Natalie almost slipped and said, “He’s engaged to my sister,” but caught herself. Nepotism was never helpful. “He owns the restaurant across from my sister’s,” she explained, also shifting into French.
“Vivi’s, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I think I may have heard of it. Bistro-style cooking?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. We serve classic Cordon Bleu food here.”
Natalie didn’t see how that was relevant to managing the restaurant, but she nodded with interest.
“Anthony tells me you’re a very good waitress.”
“I am.”
“What makes you think you’d be a good restaurant manager?”
“I’m good at dealing with the public,” said Natalie without hesitation, despite hearing Quinn’s guffawing in her head. “I know how important it is to make guests feel special. I know how important it is to treat fellow staff with respect.”
“Your sister’s restaurant is very small, I believe.” He gestured around him. “As you can see, my restaurant is very large.” He peered at her closely. “Have you ever waitressed in a restaurant larger than your sister’s?”
“No.”
“Mmm. You’re Parisian, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Natalie proudly.
“It’s been my experience that Parisians think they can do anything, e
ven when they can’t.”
“Perhaps you haven’t encountered the right Parisians,” Natalie replied politely. A provincial who hated Parisians. Forget it. She would never get the job.
“You’re from Normandy, oui?” she asked him. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful there.” She wasn’t lying. She had many friends in Paris who regularly went on holiday there. Perhaps, by complimenting where he was from, he’d see she was personable and polite, and not just Parisian.
Simon looked unmoved. “I’ll be blunt with you: since you have no real management experience, I think a leap from waitressing at your sister’s bistro to a restaurant of this size and reputation is too great. I’ve known a lot of managers who started out small. But this is a giant step. My recommendation to you would be to try to get a job managing a medium-sized restaurant first. You have to work your way up, you know.”
“Of course. I appreciate your advice.” She looked at him inquisitively. “May I ask you another question?”
“Certainement.”
“Was this even a serious job interview? Or did you speak with me purely as a favor to Anthony Dante?”
Simon was silent.
“I see,” Natalie said primly. She rose. “Thank you.”
By the time she was out on the sidewalk, she was panicked. What if this interview was a harbinger of those to come? What if every restaurant she managed to get an interview with said the same thing? What if she didn’t get another interview for months and was forced to keep working at the Wild Hart?
She’d made enough in tips to take a cab back to her—Bernard’s—apartment. As soon as she got home, she’d call and thank Anthony for getting her an interview with Simon. It wasn’t Anthony’s fault that his acquaintance had no intention of ever taking her seriously.
Disheartened, she hailed a cab and slid into the backseat. She wished she didn’t have to work tonight. God help Quinn O’Brien if he went out of his way to make her life difficult, the way he always did. God help him. She was in no mood.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
Natalie turned from helping Liam behind the bar to see Mason Clement sliding onto a stool. He was dressed immaculately in a starched white shirt and navy blue tie, nothing rumpled about him at all. Natalie liked him.
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