Death al Fresco

by Leslie Karst

  “Cool.” Kris found the woman’s contact info on her phone and sent me a text.

  “Speaking of needing temp work,” I said, swiveling around to face Javier, “we have to figure out how we’re going to deal with my being gone from Gauguin at the end of the week. Especially since we still seem to be getting bigger-than-normal crowds from that review.”

  I knew this was a sore subject with him, but I couldn’t simply ignore the fact that the hot line was going to be one cook short for three of our biggest days of the week.

  Javier, however, just waved me off with a grin. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. Natalie’s going to come in and work those nights.”

  “Natalie? But isn’t she a pastry chef?”

  “She is,” he answered, reaching for the bottle of sherry to deglaze his pan of chicken with artichokes and pancetta. “But she worked the hot line for a while before switching to desserts. And since she does pastries for the Full Moon Café, she doesn’t work nights. So she’s free to come in here and help out.”

  “Oh. Well that’s good, then.”

  “And this way,” Javier continued, “me and her can get a feel for how we work together. You know, so we can figure out how it’s going to work at our new restaurant.”

  “Right.” I focused on my two orders of sole meunière. No way did I want Javier and Brian to see the moisture collecting in my eyes.

  Chapter 17

  I’d just logged off Facebook on Wednesday morning to see if anyone had responded to my plea for a tent (no one had, though I’d gotten a slew of sympathetic comments) when my cell rang. It was the Solari’s business number.

  “You gotta get down here,” Elena shouted as soon as I answered. “There’s a bunch of protesters out front and Mario’s gone ballistic. He’s threatening to go out there and throw them all off the side of the wharf if they don’t leave by the time we open.”

  Which was fifteen minutes from now, my phone screen informed me. Damn.

  “Okay,” I said, “I’m on my way. And go tell my dad I said to cool it about throwing people off the wharf. Talk like that, even in jest, is not a good idea right now. Not with what happened to Gino.”

  “Agreed. But I’m not sure he’s in the mood to listen to what anybody has to say.”

  “Well, do your best. I’ll be there in ten.”

  I grabbed my bag and ran out the front door, not even taking the time to give Buster his usual “see you later, be a good dog” treat. I’d just have to make it up to him when I got back.

  I spotted the protestors as soon as I got to the point in the wharf where it bends to the right. There were about a dozen of them, most with handwritten placards. As I pulled into a parking spot across the street from the group, I saw that all the signs were of the anti-Columbus Day variety. At least that was one thing to be thankful for—none of them seemed to be claiming Solari’s was to blame for Gino’s death.

  The front door to the restaurant was still closed and the protestors were doing a good job of blocking access thereto. As I walked behind them to go around the corner of the building to the back entrance, I could see Cathy peeking out from behind the neon Amstel Light sign in the front window. Seeing me, she bared her teeth and then grimaced.

  I found my dad in the kitchen, where I was immediately hit by the heavenly aroma of something baking. Right, he’s making all the panettone and fugassa this morning. Dad was standing by the oven, hands on hips, as Elena spoke. “They have a right to picket,” the waitress was saying. “It’s in the Constitution. Right, Sally?” she added, seeing me come in.

  “Yep. The First Amendment allows them to exercise their rights of free speech as long as they’re on public property and as long as it’s a peaceful protest.”

  “But they’re completely blocking the entrance!” Dad bellowed. “They’re going to scare off our customers!”

  “Which they are not allowed to do,” I responded in as calm a voice as I could muster. “Look, I’ll go out there and talk to them. Try to get them to move aside and not harass anyone who wants to come into the restaurant. And if that doesn’t work, we can call the authorities. But only as a last resort.”

  Mollified for now, Dad waved us both out of the kitchen and hollered at Emilio—who had stopped chopping a pile of yellow onions to listen to our exchange—to get back to work.

  It was now eleven o’clock, so I unlocked the front door and walked outside toward the group of protestors. I didn’t recognize any of them, which was good. It was embarrassing enough having to deal with Dad’s Columbus Day blunder without having any of my friends participating in the protest of our family restaurant.

  I approached the guy with the biggest sign, which read, “Columbus Was an Imperialist Invader!”

  “Hi,” I said, “I’m Sally Solari. My dad owns this restaurant.”

  “Maybe you should give your father a history lesson about genocide and mass murder,” he responded.

  “Look,” I said calmly, “I absolutely agree that the arrival of Columbus opened up the continent to the subsequent slaughter and subjugation of the Native Americans. And I also agree that Columbus Day probably shouldn’t be something that we, as Americans, celebrate. Because what it symbolizes isn’t something we should be proud of.

  “Here’s the thing, though.” I lowered my voice to convey that what I was about to tell him was important—and perhaps even confidential—and the man leaned in to hear what I had to say. The others in the group were now also listening intently to our conversation. “My dad is kind of naïf. I tried to talk him out of the whole Columbus Day thing. For exactly these same reasons,” I said, gesturing toward the placards the group held. “Because you’re right. But even though my dad grew up in the sixties, he was pretty much sheltered from all the political awareness that was going on then because of being from such a conservative, traditional family. So, on some basic level, he just doesn’t get why an Italian-American shouldn’t be proud of the Italian who supposedly discovered this country.”

  “Well, he should learn then,” a young woman with a mane of burgundy-colored hair piped up.

  “I agree,” I said. “And I’m actually thankful that you all are here, because I think he has learned something. I think his eyes are finally being opened to the fact that it’s not really ‘discovering’ a country if it’s already occupied by another culture.”

  Most of the sign-holders were now nodding in agreement. Good. I’d succeeded in creating some sort of rapport. Now for the tricky part.

  “And I think it would be a good thing for you to stay, as well,” I said. “To show just how much you care about this issue. But…” I turned back to the man with the big sign. “It’s not going to work if you block the entrance and make it hard for customers to go in and out of the restaurant. You’re just going to piss people off if you do that, including my dad, who I know you’d love to sway to your way of thinking. And you’ll annoy all the old-timers who want to come in for lunch, too.”

  I indicated two elderly Italian women who had been standing behind the group, trying to figure out what to do, and the crowd backed off a few paces, allowing them to come forward. “But if you’re friendly and polite to folks,” I said, after the ladies had entered the dining room, “you might just convince them. You know, catch more flies with honey than vinegar and all that?”

  The woman with the red hair whispered something to the gal next to her, then turned to me. “Okay, she said. As long as you’re not trying to make us leave or anything.”

  “No way,” I said, raising my hands, palms out. “You absolutely have the right to be here. And I encourage it.”

  “All right, then.” The two women stepped back and the others followed suit, creating a wide space between them for people to enter and exit the restaurant.

  “Great.” I beamed a friendly smile and started back inside. “Oh,” I said, stopping and turning back to the group. “And if any of you need to use the restroom or want a glass of water or something, feel free to c
ome on inside.”

  “Uh, thanks,” several murmured in response. They were holding their signs, I noticed, just a little bit lower than before. Catching flies with honey, indeed.

  * * *

  Back inside the dining room, I winked at Cathy, who had been monitoring my discussion with the protestors from her spot behind the neon beer sign, then headed for the kitchen in search of my dad.

  I found him in the dish room, examining the spray valve for pre-rinsing stuff before it goes into the dishwasher. He peered into the nozzle and then pressed the trigger lock a few times, directing a powerful stream of water into the large stainless steel sink.

  “I think it’s okay now,” he said, handing the hose back to Miguel, the Solari’s dishwasher. “Probably just had some gunk in it that was making it stick.”

  I filled my father in about my talk with the protestors out front. “So I don’t think they’ll be too much of a problem. I bet they get bored and go home before lunch is even over. And I’d be surprised if they came back again tonight.”

  “Well, let’s hope so.” Dad stared out the screen door, and I followed his gaze. Four men had started up a game of bocce, and I could hear them arguing amiably about whose ball was closest to the little white pallino. I looked for the guy who’d thrown the ball against my dad’s skiff but didn’t see him among the group of players. Angelo, however, was sitting on the bench by the bocce court, watching the game. “Did you and Angelo ever fish together?” I asked my father.

  “No, but Nonno Salvatore did. I remember him talking about Angelo working on his lampara a long time ago, before Angelo got his own boat.” And then Dad laughed.

  “What?”

  “Oh,” he said, “I was just remembering a story my papà used to tell. Back in the day—this was before I was even born—the guys would head out to the fishing grounds in the afternoon, because of the northwest trade winds that come up then. They’d stay the night out there and then return in the morning with their catch. And to keep themselves amused during the evenings, they used to sing out on the boats.”

  It was a lovely image, my grandfather’s boat floating out there in the silence of the night, the moonlight reflecting off the still, black water. And I could well imagine him regaling the other fishermen in his rich tenor voice with the old songs like “La Carolina” or “The Boatman’s Farewell.”

  “Sure,” I said, “I remember Nonno talking about that. How you had to sing, and if you didn’t know any songs you had to make one up.”

  “Right. Well, you asking about Angelo just now reminded me of one story in particular that my father told. They were out there one night with a young fisherman who I’m pretty sure was Angelo, and the kid refused to sing. He said he didn’t know any songs, or that his voice was bad, or something like that. I suspect what was really going on was that his voice was changing right around then, and he was embarrassed about the cracking. Well, anyway…” A wicked smile formed on Dad’s lips. “You can imagine how the other guys responded to that. They told him if he didn’t sing, he wouldn’t get anything to eat that night, and then they all laughed.”

  “And what did Angelo do?” I asked. “Did he sing?”

  My father shook his head. “He still refused. And when they continued to pressure him, the boy jumped up, grabbed hold of one of the men—not your nonno, I’m sure, or he would have never repeated the story—and threw him over the side of the boat into the water.”

  “Whoa.”

  Dad chuckled as he gazed out the window at the old fisherman lounging in the sun on the wooden bench. “And I don’t think he’s changed all that much, really,” he said. “Angelo is a warm and generous man, but he can still have quite the temper.”

  “How so? Have you ever seen him get really angry?”

  “Just once. But it was a doozy. This was years ago, when he was still selling a lot of his catch to the old West Side Grocery before it closed. The buyer had brought his refrigerated truck out onto the wharf and was checking out Angelo’s fish, and I happened to be walking by when I heard them start to get into it. The grocery guy was accusing Angelo of trying to pass off old fish as today’s catch, and Angelo did not take kindly to the accusation. But when the other guy refused to buy anything, Angelo just lost it. He took one of those big ol’ cannonball sinkers they use for deep sea fishing and just went for the guy’s head.”

  “No way,”

  Dad nodded. “It was pretty scary, actually, ’cause the grocery buyer went straight down. I thought he might even be dead. But I guess the blow hadn’t really connected. It only just barely glanced off him, so it turned out he was okay. I don’t think he even pressed charges. But I bet there was some sort of under-the-table payoff.”

  “Man.” I studied Angelo, now clapping and cheering a well-executed bocce throw. He hardly seemed the type to belt someone with a two-pound lead weight. But then again, most anyone can snap if pushed far enough.

  Was it possible he could have been pushed that far by something Gino had done? Angelo had said that the two of them had fallen out. But was it a bigger deal than he’d admitted?

  Thinking back to my last conversation with Angelo, I remembered what he had told me about guys cutting each other’s nets and lines. Although he’d said it no longer happened, it struck me that there was no particular reason such aggressive competitiveness would suddenly disappear. And I couldn’t help but notice at the time how the fisherman had avoided my eye when telling me those days were long gone.

  Could that be the real reason Angelo and Gino fought? Had one of them been cutting the other’s lines? If it had been Angelo doing the cutting, it made sense that he would concoct a different story for their falling out.

  But what if Gino had been cutting Angelo’s lines? Such belligerent behavior, I now realized—along with all his recent fighting and cheating—could easily be explained by lead poisoning. And if he had cut Angelo’s lines and the other fisherman had been pushed to the brink and done something truly horrible, it would make sense for him to want to keep what Gino had done to provoke him a secret.

  It would also explain why Angelo was telling folks Gino had been drinking heavily of late, to supply a reason he might have simply fallen off the wharf and drowned. And it would explain, as well, Angelo’s desire to redirect suspicion to Bobby, by saying that he was going to inherit Gino’s boat.

  As I watched the fisherman through the window laughing and calling out gibes to the bocce foursome, it suddenly came to me: Ohmygod. Maybe Angelo is the old man Sean saw arguing with Gino that night behind Solari’s.

  Chapter 18

  An immense black cloud loomed in the distance, filling me with dismay and dread. No, I’m not referring to a figurative, metaphorical cloud—though such imagery would indeed have been descriptive of my current mood—but an actual thunderhead, its edges so dark and laden with moisture that I was amazed it hadn’t yet started to pour.

  “C’mon, Buster,” I said, pulling the reluctant dog away from a scent-saturated tree stump. “Let’s hustle our bustle and get on home.”

  We’d taken a morning stroll out to Lighthouse Point, and above us the sky was the color of cerulean blue gouache paint, interrupted here and there with mere wisps of cottony clouds. It was only when we got out to where you can watch the surfers up close as they catch rides at Steamer Lane that I noticed the ominous thunderhead. The black cloud was creeping up from behind the low mountains that separate Santa Cruz from Silicon Valley to the north and, to the east, from the Salinas Valley.

  So much for a leisurely walk home. I was already in a foul mood, and the last thing I needed right now was a thorough drenching.

  Although my logical self knew it was completely unrealistic, my Pollyanna alter ego had been certain someone would write me by this morning—two days before the big sister-cities dinner on Saturday—to inform me that they miraculously had a massive party tent tucked away in the corner of their garage. Guess which self proved right.

  So now I was trying to d
ecide which was worse: the prospect of serving a four-course menu to a hundred and thirty unlucky people sitting outdoors in a blustery downpour, or the prospect of telling my dad we’d have to do so.

  The rain started to pelt Buster and me when we were still a block from the house, and we made a mad dash to cover that last short distance. I shook out the old towel that I kept by the front door and rubbed down the soggy dog before letting him indoors. He immediately jumped onto the living room couch, circled three times, then curled up and closed his eyes. I could hear his soft snoring before I even made it to the kitchen.

  Taking my half-drunk coffee to the microwave, I reheated it for thirty seconds, removed the mug, and took a sip as I pondered my day. First, I wanted to go back down to the county recorder’s office to see if a marriage certificate for Gino had yet been filed. Before talking to Marvin, I’d pretty much convinced myself that this theory was far too preposterous to be taken seriously, but his revelation that he’d seen Anastasia and Gino kissing after their dinner at Solari’s had served to resurrect it as a possibility. I’d been planning to bicycle down to the County Building, but that was now out of the question. I detest riding in the rain. The roads are slick and dangerous, visibility sucks, and your brake pads get worn down super-fast when they’re wet. I’d just have to drive instead.

  After that, I needed to spend a few hours going over Letta’s old Gauguin manual. When she’d hired Javier over ten years before, she’d compiled a sort of instruction book regarding the restaurant for him to use as a guide, which included all sorts of details about the day-to-day running of the restaurant, like information on ordering, food-costing, recipes, kitchen setup and mise en place, and staffing.

  I’d of course read through the manual when I inherited Gauguin, and had also occasionally consulted it when I’d had a specific question about something. But now that it looked as if Javier was going to be leaving, it seemed like a good idea to really study the book. It would not only help give me an idea of what to look for in his replacement, but it would also make me truly face the fact that I was soon going to have to run Gauguin without its longtime head chef.