The Grey Tier
Page 11
I liked Mexican food. So did Cass and Mac. I also enjoyed watching the nut jobs walk along the boardwalk. After Googling the restaurant, I rounded up the dog and the cat. I figured it was time for Mac to start doing ride-a-longs as well, and we headed out to have a little lunch and see if I couldn’t get to the bottom of a few things.
Chapter Twenty-One
MAC WASN’T SO SURE about the car ride and he let Cass and me know it, but by the time we got to Venice Beach, he’d mellowed out and was curled up next to Cass on a blanket in the back.
“Alright, you two, I’ll be back. Be good, and I promise I’ll bring treats.” Cass opened one eye, probably thinking something profound. I still couldn’t fathom where she’d picked up the Buddhist stuff considering she spent most of her life in a strict, Christian household. I gave her a quick pat on the head, and stepped out of the van into the Santa Monica sunshine.
I didn’t have to walk too far before I located Jorge’s Mexican Café. The place was small and quaint, brightly painted in oranges and blues. It looked pretty authentic, and the smells wafting throughout the fifteen-table place were amazing. The restaurant was nearly empty, though, and I wondered why.
A young, dark-haired hostess offered to seat me, and I followed her into the main dining area. There was a beautiful view of the beach and ocean, again . . . the place seemed like it should be packed with customers. But I soon discovered why there weren’t many people there: The service was really slow. I waited a good ten minutes for a glass of water although there were only five other customers at three different tables. I was waiting patiently for the obligatory chips and salsa to arrive, my back to the front entrance, when I heard a familiar voice.
“George here?”
I did not want the speaker to see me, but I needed to confirm my suspicions. I turned my chair slightly, looking as discretely as possible towards the hostess stand. As suspected, there stood Pietro SanGiacomo, the guy who’d been at the bar screaming at Nick not so long ago. What was he doing here?
“He’s upstairs in his office,” the hostess replied.
I waited until Pietro went upstairs, and then I got up and left. The hostess called out after me, but I told her I had an emergency. Fortunately, Simone had left her disguise in my van after our most recent Denny’s run. Cass flapped her tail when I opened the back door, and Mac gave a half-hearted meow.
“Sorry, guys. Just making a quick pit stop.” I put on the wig and a pair of sunglasses, quickly changed into the T-shirt, and headed back to the restaurant. I needed to figure out how to get close to George’s office. I walked inside and, thankfully, the hostess had her back to me and was walking towards the kitchen. I scanned the area, spotting the stairs to the second floor, close to the hostess stand, next to the restrooms. Pretending to search for the bathroom, I made my way up the steps.
The stairs creaked, and I cringed. There were only about two-dozen steps. At the top were two doors, both closed—one to the left and one to the right. I heard men’s voices coming from the door on the left. I snuck close and crouched down, figuring I could claim to be fixing my shoe if anyone stumbled across me, and listened in. Within just a few seconds, I heard Nick’s name.
“Look, I didn’t kill Nick!” It was George speaking. I could tell by his accent and booming voice.
“Maybe not, George. But you haven’t exactly been keeping a low profile. You’ve been going around making a stink about that stupid fish taco recipe you said he stole and the money he owed you. I would shut the hell up if I were you.”
“He did steal the recipe!” The sound of something slapping wood reverberated through the wall. I pictured George at his desk, banging it in frustration with his big hands. “And he and I had a deal! I loaned him a shit load of money to get things rolling with these restaurants because I didn’t have the time to do it and he said he did. We agreed I’d be the silent partner, but then the asshole goes and gambles it away. I am entitled to getting my money back at the very least!”
“Oh come on, George. He didn’t steal the recipe and you and I both know it. You’re a damn drama queen, and if you’re not careful, you could land yourself in jail. Let it go—the money, the recipe, the restaurants. All of it. We don’t need the cops sniffing around. ”
“But I didn’t kill Nick! I have an alibi. I was with my wife, working from my home office. I’m only making noise to protect you.”
“Protect me?” Pietro said. He sounded as perplexed as I felt.
“Yeah, man. I mean, we’re partners and all. I think it’s pretty obvious you killed that loser. I want to make sure my investment is protected. If that girl running the place doesn’t give me my money back, and something happens to you, I am totally screwed. I’ll lose this place and be back frying rolled tacos in some roach coach on the street.”
“That’s what I mean about the drama, George. And why do you think I killed Nick?”
“‘Cause I figured you knew about him and Sofia. That he was screwing her.”
The silence was thick and heavy on the other side of the door.
“What?” Pietro said, his voice cracking in surprise and anger.
“C’mon man, you must have known,” George replied . . . even though it was pretty clear to me Pietro hadn’t. “He was screwing around with your little sister for months, and then he dumped her like a hot potato. I mean, I know if I found out some guy was doing my little sister and then broke her heart, I’d probably want to kill him, too!”
“I didn’t kill him.” Pietro’s voice was lower now, more subdued. “Stop worrying about what Nick owed us. He’s gone. Like I said, let it go. We got ourselves a decent side business. We don’t need any trouble. Keep it on the down low, George. Down. Low.”
George lowered his voice to a loud whisper, “Yeah, an illegal side business, and it scares me. I think we should get out while we can.”
Oh boy. An illegal business? No wonder George sounded nervous. These two thugs were clearly up to more than making tacos and loan sharking. I wondered if their little side business could be connected to Nick’s death.
Then again, it didn’t matter what I believed, because suddenly, I heard someone coming up the stairs behind me. Before I had a chance to slip into the door on the right, the hostess spotted me and yelled, “Hey, this part of the restaurant is off limits! What are you doing?”
I realized I didn’t have time to claim I’d lost my way to the bathroom. Time for Plan B! I bolted down the stairs as the door behind me opened. The hostess tried to block my way. Both George and Pietro yelled out. I could hear their heavy footsteps breaking into a run. I pushed at the hostess who fell back against the wall, and leapt down the few remaining steps, losing the black wig in the process. Lucky for me, I had been on the track team in high school and I was still pretty fast. I was out the front door in seconds, glancing behind me once to see Pietro hot on my trail. He may have recognized me, but at that point, there was nothing I could do about it. I had to get to my van. I darted into a surf shop, running straight through the racks of wet suits and boards and out a back door, nearly knocking down a very tan store employee. I was on the boardwalk, and as far as I could tell, no one had followed.
I kept up a decent pace until finally reaching the van. I threw the door open and leapt in, startling Mac and Cass. “Sorry, kids,” I panted, completely out of breath. “No Mexican food today.”
I fired up the VW and headed toward the freeway. I had no idea what to make of all I’d overheard, and worse yet, I kept worrying Pietro or George might come after me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I MADE IT BACK HOME almost an hour later because I drove the long way and kept checking my rearview mirrors, hoping neither thug was after me. If either one had IDd me, I was sure they’d be showing up at the bar for a confrontation, and I needed to figure out some kind of story.
I stopped off at In-N-Out Burger for lunch. The protein fix helped calm me, and I was almost back to normal when my cell phone rang, startling me.
“Hey, Evie, listen.” It was Simone, of course. “I changed my mind, and I’m not taking a mental health day after all. You and I are going to have a spa day instead!” She sounded thrilled at the prospect. I, on the other hand, groaned inwardly.
“Um, but it’s my day off.” Plus, a spa day after what I had just been through? No thanks.
“Yeah, and that’s what you do on your day off. You go to the fucking spa and relax!”
“Well, I can’t. I have plans.”
“Really? What plans!?” Simone sounded heavily skeptical.
“I was going to watch a movie and relax, maybe hang out by the pool with Cass and Mac.” Plus, I did want to do a bit more investigating and see if somehow I could figure out what George and Pietro’s were up to.
“Lame. Look, get your ass over here and come with me to the spa.” She hung up.
I sighed, staring at the phone in my hand. Honestly, I only had myself to blame if I continued to jump every time she asked me to. But I didn’t have the energy for a fight. Instead, I took Mac and Cass out of the van and into the house.
“Sorry guys. I’ll be back later.” I filled their water bowls and headed out the front door.
I groaned as I drove up to Simone’s house. A silver Bentley limo was parked out front, and I had no doubt it was meant for the two of us. I hated going anywhere in that thing. It always felt so over the top. Frankly, the whole spa day thing felt over the top. I’d never been to a spa before. Well, I guess that isn’t entirely true if you consider the “spa specials” my mom hosted on a monthly basis at her beauty salon. Something told me wherever we were going for the day would be nothing like my mother’s salon.
I parked the van and went inside. As usual, Simone wasn’t downstairs. She was lounging in her massive, hot pink and silver bedroom suite. In the middle of the room stood a huge canopy bed with black velvet drapes held back by silver cords. The quilt was hot pink. At one end of the room stood a large fireplace (and seriously, who needs a fireplace in LA?!) with a retro-looking, black leather sofa situated in front of it. Big glass vases were scattered elegantly throughout the room and filled with pink roses and white calla lilies. The bedroom looked like what might happen if 1930s chic met Katy Perry (or Simone, for that matter). It always made me think of cotton candy and bubble gum. Of course, George Clooney (the cat), lounged elegantly in the middle of the bed.
Today, Simone was wearing a black kimono covered in pink flowers.
“Look what my sister sent me from Hawaii.” She frowned down at the delicate robe. “Does she think I’m a fucking geisha?”
No Hello, how are you, Evie? Seriously, why did I even bother?
“She sent you one, too. It’s in my bathroom. Paid for them with my fucking credit card, of course.”
“But I don’t need a kimono,” I laughed, nervously. The last thing I wanted to wear to a spa was a fancy kimono. I am strictly a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl. It has to be a pretty special occasion to get me into anything else.
“Oh, give me a break. Just put it on. You’ll hurt Brenda’s feelings if you don’t. And I promised her I’d send her a photo from your new iPhone.”
“Excuse me?”
Simone took a brand new iPhone off her dresser and handed it to me.
“There. Now you can actually listen to music and text me and stuff. That old flip phone of yours was pitiful.” I started to thank her. She held up a hand. “My accountant said I needed more write-offs. Now hurry up. Our first treatment is in forty minutes and I want to have a glass of champagne in the limo.”
I looked up from the shiny new phone. “First treatment? How many treatments are there!?”
She sighed heavily. “Jesus, what part of day don’t you get? It’s a spa day!”
“I need to be back by six though. I’m working at the bar tonight.”
Hands on her hips, she shook her head and glared at me. “I don’t get you and that place. Nick is dead. Why do you want keep going there?”
“To play my music.” Seriously, how many times were we going to have this conversation before she stopped asking?
“Fine. I’ll have you back by six before you turn into a fucking pumpkin or whatever. Now hurry up!”
I changed into the kimono. It was a pale, jade green with teal colored leaves. Pretty, but I felt seriously underdressed. When I came out of Simone’s bathroom, which was almost as big as my parents’ house back in Brady, she clapped her hands like a school girl and shrieked, “You look fabulous! Now let’s go. We are going to have so much fun.”
I wasn’t holding my breath.
Twenty minutes later, we were ushered into the VIP room of the ultra-chic Moda Spa, where we had our own splash pool, Jacuzzi, sauna, and treatment room.
“This is for the special people.” Simone winked at me.
I rolled my eyes. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t appreciate all of this. I did. But it felt so foreign and over-the-top, self-indulgent, I didn’t know how I was going to relax. George and Pietro’s conversation and the near run-in with them was still on my mind. God, I prayed Pietro hadn’t recognized me.
I reclined in a padded lounge chair in front of the pool next to Simone who contentedly sipped the spa’s signature drink. The place actually had a full bar, which seemed like an oxymoron to me considering spas were supposed to be all about health and wellness. I mean, why bother advertising all those detoxifying treatments if you were going to encourage your cliental to get liquored up? Also, a full bar plus personal hot tubs and wading pools were a lawsuit waiting to happen. But hey, what do I know?
So here I was, me and my kimono, a captive audience for the next four hours with my on-again, off-again friend Simone. I decided now was as good a time as any to see what else I could learn about why Simone had contacted Nick. Her drink finished, I went in for the kill. “So, you and Dwight? What’s the deal?”
“What do you mean, ‘What’s the deal?’” she asked.
“I mean with you and him? He worships you.”
“Who doesn’t?”
I knew better than to say, “not me.” “Good point, but I think he has a thing for you.”
Simone sat up and swung her legs over the side of the lounge chair. “We’re screwing. That’s it. He takes care of certain basic needs for me.” She reached down and grabbed another fashion magazine.
Okay, I knew Simone’s morals were questionable, but the casual way she said that took me by surprise. Where I come from, being sexually involved with another person wasn’t treated quite as casually as, say, scratching an itch. Of course, I’m not so naïve to think everyone in my hometown only had sex with their spouses and strictly for the sake of procreating. But even the most illicit of affairs (and they most certainly happened in Brady) were built on more than base sexual need. Not for the first time, I found myself feeling sorry for Simone and her obvious lack of emotional connection with most of the people around her.
“Oh. So you don’t love him?”
She laughed. “Are you kidding me? No. I don’t love him. Love is for people like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nice people. You’re a nice person, the type of person all those sappy love songs I sing were written for. I’m a realist, and all I know is I have needs and love isn’t one of them.”
“Oh.” I didn’t have a clue what to say to that.
She frowned at me suddenly. “Why all the questions, Evie? About me and Dwight?”
“Just curious.”
“Bullshit. What are you digging around for?”
I sighed. “Look, it’s been bothering me . . . what you said about Nick and how you called and threatened him. And how you want me to cover up for you.”
She laughed. “You think I could have killed your bartender friend?”
“No. But I think Dwight could have.” There. I said it. “I mean, I think the guy would
do anything for you. Don’t you?”
She didn’t respond right away. A handsome man popped his head into the room and said, “Miss Simone, we’re ready for your massage.”
She turned her hundred-watt smile on him. “So am I, Hank.” She stood, letting her robe slip off into a silky puddle at her feet, revealing her naked body with a casualness I could never pull off. She turned back to me before leaving the room. “I think there are a lot of people who would kill for me, Evie. Including Dwight.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
BY THE TIME WE LEFT the spa, I’d been plucked, rubbed, salted, waxed, and lymphatically drained. I had a very good idea how a car must feel going through one of those drive-thru car washes. As for Simone, by the time she’d finished with all her treatments, she was like Jell-O and could barely even say goodbye when the limo dropped us off at her house. Not that I knew what to say to her after our strange conversation in the private lounge. But truth be told, if someone murdered Nick on Simone’s behalf, it was feeling less and less as if she’d actually asked them to do it. Which meant I wasn’t any closer to finding out who had murdered Nick. But I sure looked like a million bucks!
Back at Nick’s, I played a set and then served a round of drinks. Becky was cooking in the back again. Candace’s drink was the last one I poured. I slid it over to her and smiled.
“This one’s on the house.” I looked down, feeling uncomfortable and a little guilty. “Listen, I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Candace reached over and patted my hand. “Oh honey, I’m the one who should be sorry. Thing is, I’m nothing more than a crazy drunk. You don’t owe me an apology.” She took a sip from her drink.