“I never said that.” I wished I hadn’t taken this jagged road that could only lead down a dangerous path.
“And don’t you want to get your mom off your back?”
“How do you even know these things?” I never told anyone that Mom constantly nagged me about marrying some “island coconut” from the Bahamas, not even DeShaun—especially not DeShaun.
“Don’t be angry. I accidentally heard a few things when you were talking to your mom on the phone before. Let’s be real, there’s more privacy at Thirtieth Street Station than there is in this back room. In my defense, as soon as I realized you were on your phone, I’d turn around and leave. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I feel like—”
“Feel like what?” Again, I was that same fish swimming toward the wriggling worm on the hook.
“I feel like you’re expecting too much from him. Maybe that’s all he’s capable of. You chose him, and maybe now, you have some regrets, but again, that’s my opinion.”
“You’re absolutely right. That is your opinion. And what my husband and I talk about really is our business.”
“I realized you’d be angry,” he said. “But, you wouldn’t be if there wasn’t at least a grain of truth to what I’m saying.” He hesitated, waiting for me to make the next move. I stood up and headed for the door.
“Wait! I apologize for offending you. Let me make it up to you.”
As I turned the doorknob, I felt myself relenting a bit. Lately, I was sounding more and more like my uptight psychologist mother when she was given an opinion that didn’t agree with her own.
I took a deep breath and swiped a page from my father’s life playbook, which helped him become one of the nation’s top black surgeons. Who cared what Jeremy thought? He was only expressing his opinion, no matter how wrong and wacked out of an opinion it was. “Nah, I’m cool.”
“Seriously, Let’s talk. I could use your thoughts about some things, too.”
“Like what?”
“Go to lunch with me and I’ll tell you.”
“No thanks.” I stood there for a few seconds, trying to come up with an excuse, but after thinking about it, I realized I didn’t need one. I did not want to go to lunch with him or anyone else from the bank. I did my job and went home; that was it. I wasn’t interested in making friends.
“Why not? It’s just lunch, not some hot, steamy sex session in a seedy motel after-hours.” He laughed.
“Comments like that are precisely why.”
“I was kidding. If we go today I can get us a long lunch.” He winked. “I’m in good with the supervisor.”
I shook my head, getting impatient. “No, thank you.”
He cocked his head to the side as he rubbed the stubble on his chin with his thumb and index finger—something DeShaun did. “Why not? It’s only a burger. It won’t kill you.”
“I’m having lunch with my husband today, sorry.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No thank you.” I turned and walked out the door, shutting it behind me. From behind the closed door, he yelled, “Hey, you owe me. I took on old lady Pritcherd for you. Do you know how many pennies that bag had? And I’m not referring to the container.”
I shook my head and went back to my counter.
“You come with me to lunch and I’ll make it worth your while.”
I started to say no, but something about the way he said it made me consider it for a brief second. “No.” I said the word, but it was a softer “no.” By his sly grin, he knew it, too.
I walked out the door, thinking I was an idiot for even being tempted by this man.
DeShaun
“My good man,” Mr. Herjavec began, “I want to surprise my wife with a birthday party she’ll never forget, and I’m coming to you to iron out all the details. Can you handle that?”
DeShaun nodded. “I’ll do whatever necessary to make sure Mrs. Herjavec enjoys her day.”
The restaurant was crowded, more than usual for an afternoon service. Today, the Toastmasters were having a luncheon for their annual Women’s Day and one of DeShaun’s usual customers, Mr. Herjavec and his wife, were two of the 157 attendees. The spacious room was crammed with overzealous patrons who had nothing more to do with their money and time than to spend it dining on overpriced chicken breast, garlic bread and a choice of two sides.
Mr. Herjavec placed his, tanned, well-toned arm around DeShaun’s shoulders. His pungent cologne stung the inside of DeShaun’s nostrils. “It’s Jenn,” Mr. Herjavec corrected. “You’ve known us for several months now. It’s okay to refer to the both of us by our first names.”
DeShaun, eager to get away from Mr. Herjavec’s grasp, nodded. “Jenn and Berti, it is then.”
Berti Herjavec was a decent guy, but a little too touchy feely for DeShaun’s taste. Berti was that guy who gave you a hearty welcoming hug and kissed you on both cheeks every time he saw you. He frequented the restaurant on several occasions, picking up the sometimes over a thousand-dollar tab to enjoy one evening with family and friends. He loved to tell the story, especially when drunk, of his parents’ trek over to the U.S. from Croatia with only thirty dollars in their pockets. At the age of forty-seven, Berti’s father, Dmitar Herjavec, set up shop in New York with a distant relative of the family who had moved there years before.
Mr. Herjavec gave a quick nod and took his arm from around DeShaun. He reached inside the pocket of his crisp, white shirt and produced an expensive-looking timepiece. The platinum-colored watch was attached to a tiny silver chain and contained a huge diamond stuck smack dab in the center of one of the links.
Berti lifted the watch toward the sun, squinted and checked out the time. “It’s getting late. I’m meeting the head of the Department of Defense this afternoon to hopefully garner another governmental contract. I hate working with those old boys, but I do love that money, you know what I mean?” He ran his fingers through his salt and pepper hair, smoothing down the spiked pieces.
Berti may have been older, but in no way did he look it. One evening when he wrote out a check for a $700 dinner with friends, DeShaun saw his license. According to the date on the license, Berti was sixty-three years old.
“What are you doing over there?” His wife, Jenn, sauntered across the room from the other side of the restaurant. “We need to go now. Have you forgotten we are meeting Leonard and Tina for drinks in an hour? I need to go home and change.”
Jenn Herjavec clunked across the room, her heels clicking the marble floor with each step. For such a short woman, her limbs were long. Her pinned-up, raven-colored hair accentuated her long, slim delicate neck.
Her neck was the only thing that was slender about her. She preferred to show off her curvaceous body in maxi, spaghetti-strapped dresses that clung to every curve. Her dangling gold earrings weighed down her lobes like tiny anchors, but matched her shimmering-tanned skin tone perfectly. The only time a wrinkle became visible on her face was when she frowned while waiting on her husband.
Overhearing a few of Berti’s conversations, DeShaun realized Mrs. Herjavec’s teeth were as fake as her breasts. Her face was round and her cheeks, constantly flushed. Even though Mr. Herjavec was trim, and looked good, DeShaun pegged the misses at least fifteen years younger than her husband.
“I’m coming,” Berti said. “Just thanking our waiter for his impeccable service.” Berti leaned over and whispered, “Impatient, but I guess that comes with the territory of Armenian women, huh?”
Jenn sighed. “I’ve already thanked him.”
Thank him, she did. After DeShaun had brought over the $250 lunch check, Jenn had graciously handed him a crisp one hundred-dollar bill as a tip. When she handed it to him, her fingertips lingered in the palm of his hand. Mr. Herjavec was standing not fifteen feet from them when she whispered, “You’re such a delicious waiter.” She was a little tipsy when she said it. In fact, Mrs. Herjavec was always drinking—during brunch, lunch, whatever. During late night suppers, Mrs. Herjavec always
had a glass in her hand, usually filled with a red port wine. Every once in awhile, she ventured into the harder stuff, but those were usually reserved for special occasions.
“It isn’t necessary for Stiles to be involved in our plans,” Mr. Herjavec told DeShaun. “I’d prefer this dinner be between you and me. Your manager has a way of overpricing his menu.” He slapped DeShaun on the back as he gave a hearty laugh that echoed throughout the dining room. Berti’s rings sharply smacked against his shoulder blades.
“No problem, but I’ll have to clear getting the time off with my boss. Plus, if you need a few other servers for your party, I’ll have to clear them too.”
“Fine. Do what you must, however, do not include Stiles in on the original plans. The prices he charged me for our last soiree were ridiculous. Forty dollars a plate for lobster?”
The truth was, DeShaun thought Mr. Stiles didn’t charge enough, especially considering the plate came with risotto and truffles. Where his manager went wrong was providing sub-par service for guests who didn’t mind shelling out the cash, especially for private progressive parties, where guests went from house to house dining on delicious delicacies for each course. DeShaun bet he could get away with charging double and not one complaint would leave Mr. Herjavec’s lips after the event.
Mr. Herjavec wrapped his arm around DeShaun’s shoulders and gave a rigid hug. “I’m trusting you to gather your best men for the event. If all goes well, there will be a big tip in it for you. Plus, if you do a good job, I can refer you to all of my old chaps.” Mr. Herjavec stuck out his hand, but DeShaun wasn’t fast enough to respond. Mr. Herjavec reached down and grabbed DeShaun’s hand and shook it ferociously. He shook his hand so hard, his rings dug into DeShaun’s palms.
“Yes, sir,” DeShaun said. “I will handle everything.”
“Wonderful!” Berti reached up, grabbed DeShaun’s face and double kissed his cheeks.
Jenn grabbed her husband’s arm. “Are we ready yet?”
When Berti hushed her, she turned and walked away, her heavy steps angry and tired. “I don’t have all day.” Her flowery perfume scent lingered in the air.
“One second,” Berti turned to DeShaun. “She is impossible to please.”
“I heard that.” She shot a quick look at DeShaun and smiled with a twinkle in her deep green eyes. “And for the record, I can definitely be pleased.”
DeShaun watched Mr. and Mrs. Herjavec walk out the restaurant doors.
“Yo.” One of the service waiters walked up to DeShaun. “Stiles wants to see you right away.”
DeShaun nodded, still watching the Herjavecs. Berti attempted to hold open one side of the restaurant’s double glass doors for her to exit, but for some reason, she opted to walk through the other door, leaving him to trail behind her. They seemed like polar opposites. Berti was more on the friendlier side while his wife was colder toward people. Berti was also a frugal man. He may have spent money, but it was for things he deemed well worth it, like the expensive family dinners or parties for business associates. His wife dropped money on anything she wanted to, regardless of its worth to her. Mrs. Herjavec would probably explode if she didn’t spend at least a thousand dollars a day on something frivolous.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Stiles?” DeShaun asked, when he stepped into his manager’s back office.
“Did you know Damien was leaving the restaurant to go to school?”
Damien was Stiles’ son-in-law and had absolutely no experience in the restaurant business. It wasn’t a total shock when Stiles hired Damien to run the entire operation. Nepotism was alive and festering in today’s businesses, but DeShaun figured Mr. Stiles was too cheap to let his business be run into the ground by some inexperienced kid, family or not. Then he found out Mr. Stiles was barely paying the twenty-one-year-old kid and understood why he was hired in the first place.
“I do remember you saying something about that,” DeShaun said.
“Well, I’m thinking you are the best candidate to take over his position. How do you feel about that?”
How was he supposed to feel? If someone had asked him how he felt about the situation two months ago, he would’ve answered in one word—cool. Mimi wanted him to get the position, and for awhile, he did too. Now, there was more to it than that, plus the fact that he knew what Damien was paid. That would be a downgrade, considering he wouldn’t receive tips as a manager. It was the tips that were keeping him financially afloat. He was good at his work, but he wasn’t sure if being in the food service industry was what he wanted to do long term. Even managers in upscale restaurants didn’t make six figures and, although that kind of money was a long way off, taking this position would almost guarantee he’d be struggling for much longer than he needed to.
He didn’t want to decline either. Mr. Stiles took a chance and hired him when his work permits weren’t straight. He owed him a lot.
“That sounds like a great opportunity.” DeShaun left it at that. His manager could take that any way he wanted to.
Mr. Stiles shuffled around a few papers on his desk. “Great. I’ll send the paperwork to Corporate later this week. And I do understand that the tips would be greatly reduced, so, therefore, I am recommending a one-hundred percent raise with your new promotion along with two extra weeks’ vacation time.”
DeShaun couldn’t believe it. It was like his boss had read his mind. Old man Stiles was finally coming up off the dime. He must’ve realized how much DeShaun was worth to the company. With the extra vacation time and money, he and Naomi would be able to make trips back to the Bahamas for vacation and visit his family, whom he hadn’t seen in over four years since moving to the States.
“That would be greatly appreciated.” DeShaun turned to leave but then remembered something. “I need to speak with you.”
“Let me just make a few calls to corporate and we can get the paperwork going with your new position. Now, you do understand that this position wouldn’t take effect for the next few weeks. Damien isn’t leaving until the end of the summer, so I’d suggest training with him to get a feel for your new position. When he’s gone, you will be fully ready to handle the responsibility.”
“Yes, sir.” DeShaun turned to leave.
“You wanted to speak with me about something?” Mr. Stiles picked up the phone on his desk and began dialing.
“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. I spoke with Mr. Herjavec.”
His boss paused mid-dial and raised his brow. “Oh? What did he want?”
“Nothing big.” DeShaun attempted to muster up as much casualness as he could. “He wants me to get together a service team for a party for his wife. I’ll schedule M.J. and Luke to work the party and keep Reggie and Malcolm on the schedule here at the restaurant.”
Mr. Stiles gently placed the phone back onto the cradle. “I heard nothing of this. Why did Mr. Herjavec not see me on this arrangement?”
“That’s the thing,” DeShaun shrugged. “I suppose he didn’t want to bother you.”
Mr. Stiles reached up and scratched his temple with his stubby, nail bitten index finger. “That’s really strange, DeShaun.”
“How so? I’ve worked parties on my own before.”
“Yes, but he’s always come to me first. I don’t understand why Mr. Herjavec is coming to you rather than to me. We have spent much time and money on his social affairs and all of a sudden, he wants to cut me out?”
“I don’t think he’s cutting you out.” DeShaun hoped to minimize the situation. He didn’t realize it would be this big of a deal. “Maybe he understands how busy you are and wants to save you the headache of trying to prepare a small gathering for his wife.”
The truth was, Berti had invited over 200 guests for his wife’s birthday party, but now was not the appropriate time to spill that bit of information.
“Since when has Berti Herjavec thrown a small party?” Mr. Stiles asked. His boss may have been the guy to hook DeShaun up with a job, but when it came to money, that didn’t matte
r. Business was business.
“I’m only telling you what Berti, I mean, Mr. Herjavec, told me.”
Mr. Stiles picked up the phone. “I’ll give him a call. Continue service while I get this straightened out, please.”
DeShaun walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.
Dammit! He hoped he hadn’t messed up a gig that could bring in plenty of cash.
Naomi
The waitress came around with my bacon fried shrimp appetizer. When she set the hot plate down, a droplet of grease splattered on my arm.
“Sorry about that,” the waitress said. I looked at her nametag. Her name was Shanteska.
“That’s fine,” I told her, inspecting my arm. Was Shanteska happy with her job as a server? Was this her only goal in life or did she have other dreams that never came to fruition? My parents wanted me to have what they called, a serious profession. To them, that meant a doctor or a lawyer. They would even accept me being something artsy like a writer if I was serious about it and made millions of dollars from publishing deals and movie rights. To my parents, money equaled success. I harbored some guilt by the fact that my parents spent tons of money for me to obtain my undergraduate marketing degree, and yet I was still looking to do something I enjoyed while making money. To date, I hadn’t found either. I figured going back to school to obtain my Masters was the best option at this point. If the opportunity presented itself, I would surely take it.
I took a big, sloppy bite out of my burger. Immediately, I soared into heaven. That was one of the perks about eating alone. You could be as greedy as you wanted with no apologies.
A big splotch of ketchup dripped from the burger and onto my shirt. I grabbed the napkin on the table, dabbed the tip in water and began blotting at the stain.
“You sure look like you’re enjoying that burger.” Jeremy stood there, looking down at me with a satisfied smirk on his face. “You’re tearing through it like it was your job.”
“What are you doing here?”
Champagne Life Page 3