down. Annie was leafing through the receipts over a glass of wine. Some of them were heading to Café Mirage, where a lot of restaurant people got together after-hours to let off steam.
She knew she should go. She could meet up with everyone there. Hell, she was thirty-five and had been working in kitchens for ten years. Pretty, funny, now divorced. She’d made a clean break. Now it all just seemed about two people who ended up headed in different ways.
Jose, the dishwasher, was tying up the garbage, hanging the last of the pots and pans.
“Go on home,” she told him. Jose had a wife and kids and went to church early in the morning.
“I finish, ma’am,” he said, picking up the broom.
“Nah,” Annie said, getting up. “I’ll close. Here…” She handed him the tray of the last of the crespelles. “Para los niños. Go on.”
Jose took the tray and smiled. “Gracias, Miss Annie.”
He left through the back door. Annie heard the rattling sound of Jose’s Nissan as it clunked away. Still in her whites, she got up and hung a few last pots, made a note about the specials for Monday, and picked up the last two bags of trash.
One hundred and twenty meals.
It still felt as if she was carrying most of them!
She pushed open the back door and headed out to the Dumpster. The cool night air hit her face and felt good. A single light illuminated the back. In this part of town, at night, even on a Saturday, there were no cars, no one on the streets. Just closed-up warehouses and the sound of the thruway overhead.
Something Annie saw made her stop.
A car was idling next to the Dumpster. The passenger door was open. She heard voices. In Spanish. A kid in a hooded sweatshirt and a red bandana lobbed a large black trash bag over the rim.
She stepped back into the shadows.
The kid turned to get back into the car; then his eyes fell on her.
A chill ran down her spine. There was something cold, almost spooky in the way he looked at her—not even startled to see her standing there. The driver revved the engine. A rust-colored Jetta. Some kind of marking on the trunk.
Don’t let him see you. Get the hell out of here, the tremor said.
With an indifferent nod, the kid in the bandana stared at her for what seemed forever. Then he jumped back in the car.
With a jolt, it took off onto the street and sped onto Atlantic, which led into the ramp and onto the highway. Annie saw the kid turn one last time and give her a long look through the car’s rear window. It was a look she had seen only in films—dull, fixed, implacable. Like in Blood Diamond or Hotel Rwanda. The smirk of someone capable of hacking bodies apart or shooting up people, yet no more than a boy.
Like he was saying, Lady, I know where to find you. I know who you are.
Annie let what seemed a full minute pass to make sure the Jetta wasn’t coming back. Then she went over to the Dumpster.
She knew she shouldn’t do it. Just toss in the bags. Don’t get involved. Monday morning, the cartage company would come. Whatever was in it, no one would ever know.
You have a son. Everything’s just starting to turn for you. Go home. Go to Café Mirage. Get drunk. Write Jared.
Instead, she reached over the side and pulled out the heavy, bound bag. She undid the tape. It was crammed full with newspapers and cartons. Used food containers. Slop.
Then she felt the black metallic shape at the bottom of the bag.
Put it back, a voice said. She knew she had just stepped into something.
She was staring at an automatic gun.
You don’t have to do this, she said to herself. Things are just starting to turn for you. For Jared.
You don’t have to get involved…
It was later, in the small one-bedroom apartment Annie rented on the point neighboring Cos Cob, with a glimpse of the sound. A few French liquor posters hung on the walls. Her favorite majolica pitchers were arranged on the kitchen shelves. Basically all the possessions she had brought east with her.
Two glasses of wine hadn’t made much more sense of it for her.
Annie sat in her flannel pj’s writing a good-night e-mail to Jared. He always checked in before going to sleep.
Hey, dude, how’d your day go today? I had a great one. Our best night yet…
She took her fingers off the keyboard and paused.
She had seen the TV news reports. They all had. It was on at the restaurant all afternoon as they prepped for dinner. That horrible drive-by shooting in Greenwich.
Only five miles down the road.
When they first heard it, everyone stopped working and fixed on the screen. Manuel, her sous-chef. Tim, preparing the desserts. Claudia, from the waitstaff. The rumor was that it was some kind of crazy revenge attack. Involving gangs. Eighty shots. And this poor federal prosecutor had been caught in the line of fire. Just filling up his tank. Anyone could have stumbled into it.
“Jesus.” Claudia turned pale. “I fill up there all the time. It’s near where I work out.”
Manuel, always the conspiracy buff, weighed in. “You wait, there’s something deeper. This is all about drugs. Wait and see.”
“It’s not about drugs,” Tim shot back. “Didn’t you hear? It’s about some girl who drowned.”
Manuel spread out a flour mixture on the counter. “I know these people. You don’t want to mix with them—you just stay clear. What do you think, boss?”
“I think you better get those tamales filled,” Annie yelled over, “or you’ll be in my line of fire.”
They all laughed. Gradually they went back to work.
But now she was involved.
She had found the gun. She knew it. She had seen the police lieutenant on TV. Heard how they’d found the shooter’s truck. How they had a “person of interest” in custody. The red bandana. How they knew what kind of gun it was.
A Tec-9.
Annie knew exactly what she’d found.
The only question was, what was she going to do about it? Things were going well. Starting to turn around. This was a place she could bring Jared. There were good programs here.
This was a life she could build for herself.
