Promoting a restaurant can’t be all that different from promoting a product, after all. If I play this right, I might even end up with a position within the Winfield Group like Julia.
“And for the record? This is me trying my best.”
Chapter 6
Jacquarding
Jack
I sink the tip of my knife into yet another cockroach, grimacing as it pierces the carapace. I fling it into the nearest garbage can—slam dunk—and turn to the sink.
Only cold water. Fantastic. So far today I’ve been a night porter, electrician, exterminator, and cleaner. I’ve hauled enough garbage to fill the dumpster out back. The grease trap fell on my head earlier, and I don’t think there’s a shampoo in the world that will rescue my hair. A horrendous-looking alley cat scratched me when I tried to shoo him out of the kitchen, so I’ll probably start foaming at the mouth before sunset.
And now I’m a plumber.
Not exactly how I imagined my career going post-Pastiche.
It’s only been three days since everything turned to shit, but it feels like three years. When I took the keys to the Sailfish from Kiara, I expected a mess. This is verging on a disaster. I don’t blame her for letting upkeep go by the wayside during her dad’s illness. I barely wanted to push open the door when I first arrived, my chest tight as I peered at the dark, disheveled space. It needs help. More elbow grease than I can provide on my own. My savings are going to be drained by the time this project is done.
I sit back on my heels, scratching my beard. My T-shirt is sticking to my back. The AC needs a tune up, too. Another thing to add to my increasingly crowded mental list.
As if to add insult to injury, the cat pokes his head around the back door I’ve propped open, his long whiskers twitching.
“Go away,” I grumble. “There’s no food here.”
I did that sweep first thing, in case anything in the walk-in or lowboys had turned into a science experiment and needed a hazmat clean-up. Thankfully, the only things I found were seasonings and tinned items verging on expiration.
The cat paws at something underneath a table. A lizard scrambles out and the cat pounces on it. My lips twitch with reluctant amusement at the sight of the lizard’s tail hanging out of his mouth.
“Guess I was wrong,” I tell him.
He trots away, tail held high. I pry open the cabinet underneath the sink, frowning at the pipes. The water pressure sucks, in addition to being freezing. I’m afraid to look at the water heater; I’m sure it needs to be replaced.
Herman, the grizzled line cook who handled the day-to-day kitchen operations when I was around, would know who to contact about this. He was a stubborn old man, but he was close with Sal and loved this place. Taught me some good recipes. How to shotgun a beer. When I started working at the Sailfish, he seemed larger than life, like a rockstar.
I walked into this mess and it’s mine to fix, but if I can find him, maybe he’ll give me a hand. I remember him living in one of those trailer park communities by the water. Tiny place with a taxidermied alligator nailed to the wall.
It’s as good a plan as any.
The last notes of the playlist I was listening to—heavy on Greta Van Fleet—fade, leaving behind unpleasant silence. I need noise to focus, be it music or the buzz of a kitchen. Ideally both at the same time. When I worked in Tokyo, at a place that mixed Japanese classics with the sensibility of a French brasserie, the head chef would torture the staff with disco. I didn’t mind, really. Helped me keep my head down.
I stand, groaning as my knees protest, and stretch. I ran along thebeach this morning, something I haven’t had an opportunity to do in years. Probably went too hard, but the thought of starting the day with a beer was tempting, and I needed to stop that in its tracks. I might have fond memories of Herman, but I don’t want to end up like him.
I grab my phone from the counter and put on a new playlist. As I click on Chester’s contact—which I’ve done repeatedly the past few days, before losing the nerve to text him—a message from Kiara pops up.
Kiara:Have you seen Poppy Winfield’s story?
Me:Story?
Kiara:On Instagram
Me:Why?
Kiara:Looks like she’s in West Palm
Me:???
I look up her profile, careful not to do anything dumb like follow her, and click on her story. The most recent image, from this morning, is a selfie, big designer sunglasses concealing her eyes. Kiara’s right. The background looks just like downtown West Palm Beach. No text, no context. The sunshine—no, it must be whatever filter she used before posting—is making her hair glow gold.
