Sexual harassment, and then Gia would divorce him and take everything that the lawsuit didn’t eat up.
He was stuck with Gia, the wallowing termite queen, he thought for the thousandth time. No matter which way you cut it. He thought about the meeting they had here. Becca, Tamara, and Renee had all looked hot. Trim. Fit. Beautiful. And interesting. Jesus, any of them would be better than Gia.
Inside, the dark rooms buzzed with conversation and the clink of glassware. People were laughing, eating…drinking. He passed by several curtained alcoves where diners were deep into their meals. Blue Note was surprisingly busy, and everyone seemed to be in their right places as Glenn took in the place with practiced ease. Except for the people by the far window. They looked as if they hadn’t been served in a while, and their entrees and their appetizers were long over. Glenn was about to rectify the situation himself when he saw the footsie they were playing beneath the table and realized the staff was simply giving them a little extra time as they really weren’t interested in food.
Probably having an affair, Glenn thought with a hint of jealousy. But he was proud of his wait staff. Discernment. That’s what Blue Note needed. The ability to read the customers and discern their needs, whether those needs be drink, food, or something else.
He strolled through the kitchen. Luis and crew were getting out the meals like a well-oiled machine. They’d lost their top chef a month earlier, but then Patrick had been more of a head case than a head chef. Luis, with little experience, was pinch-hitting. He was a quick learner, but Blue Note had no signature dishes, no standouts, nothing to make it rise above the hundreds of other restaurants in and around the city.
And if they didn’t find that special uniqueness that would make Blue Note the name on everyone’s lips, it would be in serious trouble. It already was.
Glenn grabbed a short glass at the bar, filled it with ice, and poured in a couple of ounces of bourbon. He took a sip, felt instantly better, then headed to the back office where he sat on a worn leather chair. His domain. Old pictures lined the wall. Photos of him. Scott. Even a few from about a million years ago—the friends from St. Elizabeth’s. He saw one, the color faded, of the smiling faces of Zeke, Garrett, Hudson, The Third, Scott, and himself…no girls. No Jessie.
He wondered about her and really hoped it wasn’t her body that had been located at the old school. Glenn liked to think that she’d escaped, gotten away from whatever demons had been chasing her. Hudson’s girl.
Yeah, right.
A chick like Jessie…so mysterious and damned sexy, she didn’t belong to anyone. Shit, she’d been hot. Hot!
So what had happened to her? Glenn thought again about missed opportunities as he clicked on his computer to pore over the books. Man, they owed a lot of accounts payable.
His stomach nose-dived as he glanced at the total.
It was shocking, how many places had offered them supplies on credit, but then Scott could be a silver-tongued devil when he needed to. Pascal was a closer. He could charm, cajole, and squeeze vendors like a virtuoso. Sometimes Glenn wondered where and how it was all going to end. If things didn’t improve, not only the lease wouldn’t be paid, but payroll was going to be a problem. And shouldn’t there be more funds available? Sure, the restaurant had off days, but when they were on, they were on, man.
Look at tonight.
Determined to get to the bottom of their cash-flow problems, Glenn examined the accounts as best as he could. He’d had no formal training in business and finance, but he knew when something was owed and whether the restaurant had enough money to pay it.
A couple of hours later after juggling figures and making minimal payments on overdue bills, Glenn remembered the card. He pulled it from his pocket and examined the light blue envelope with the typed address. It was postmarked Portland. Almost looked like an invitation of some kind.
He sliced it open with a letter opener, and pulled out a piece of plain white card stock:
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.
That’s what little boys are made of.
Glenn dropped the note as if it had scorched him. His heart pounded hard and painful in his chest. The spit dried in his mouth.
Jessie!
What the hell?
Panicked, Glenn could hear Jessie’s singsonging voice. Could see her saying those very words. “What are little boys made of…”
He tried to calm down, but once the image was loose in his mind, there was no holding it back. As if high school were yesterday, he could remember how much his fingers had wanted to caress her curves. He’d wanted Jessie with a fiery desire that had plagued him like a curse. Sure, she’d only wanted Hudson. Sure, she’d never looked his way. But she’d teased. How she’d teased. With that sexy lilt and twitch of her hips and a knowing look and something about the way she talked that was way more adult than the rest of them. She knew things. Hadn’t Vangie said it the other night? That Jessie knew things?
A shudder ripped through him as her image came to mind.
God in heaven, he’d wanted to wrap her legs around his waist and pound himself inside her. Just stick it to her, man, for all he was worth. He could imagine her head thrown back, her mouth open and slack, her hazel eyes like glittering agates.
Mr. Ready jumped to flagpole attention and Glenn reached a hand to take care of things, but then the import of the card wilted his desire like a bucket of cold water never could.
Was Jessie alive?
She had to be!
“Mr. Stafford?” A light knock on the office door. Glenn instantly adjusted himself, stuffed the card back in his pocket, then pulled open the door. Amy, one of the newest employees who wasn’t yet eighteen, regarded him with her usual deer in the headlights look. “Mr. Pascal’s here but he’s talking to a policeman? He told me to come get you.”
“I’ll be right there,” Glenn told her. Policeman…? McNally! Had to be. Damn the man. Did he have to come to their place of work?
Glenn checked his appearance in the mirror by the door, sucked in his gut, promised himself he would cut down on the pasta intake. He headed out the door, walking steadily and with confidence toward the front of the restaurant even though he felt a quivering worry growing inside his gut.
Sure enough, there was that cop. Older now. But Jesus, really better looking than before, the bastard. How was that possible? He’d been in his mid-twenties before, now he was in his mid-forties, and it looked like he hadn’t lost one goddamned hair off his head. And the hair was still dark brown, the temples only faintly silver. McNally gazed at Glenn through light hazel eyes that pierced like steel. He looked fit and hard and just as mean as he had twenty years earlier.
Scott was smoothing his bald pate with one hand in a gesture that could mean anything between nervousness and amusement. He lifted an eyebrow at Glenn. In a gently mocking tone, he said, “Detective Sam McNally’s paying us a call.”
“Probably not a social one,” Glenn said shortly, trying to temper his tension with a smile. He hoped he wasn’t gritting his teeth. “Let’s all go back to my office.”
Amy
