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40
OWEN
The dayafter Livvy stormed the restaurant, we guys regroup and talk about next steps.
Would the warning she received, the one we got as well, be enough to scare her off? Is she getting closer to throwing in the towel?
And what about us? What the fuck are we supposed to do?
I look around EastSide as people start arriving for lunch service. Our bookings are down today, strange for a Thursday, but hell, every business has its ebbs and flows. I greet our usual customers, providing the extra welcome that keeps them coming back. Everything else is perking along beautifully, like the well-oiled machine that we are.
The kitchen is humming, the hosts are seating guests, the food is perfect, and the soft sound of people talking and laughing, combined with the clatter of dishes and silverware, are music to my ears.
Another perfect day in EastSide-land, what every restauranteur dreams of. I’m not even annoyed when I have to run out and get a new batch of menus printed for the dinner service because we were missing some obscure ingredient.
On my way out, I spot Livvy behind the counter at Pawsh. I catch her eye and she brightens, but only for a moment.
What’s that all about?
I poke my head in anyway. “Yo, Liv. How’s it hanging?”
I look around. The place is deathly quiet. It’s a shame, because it’s a beautiful little boutique. When I have more time, I’ll have to pick some new things out for Cheddar.
The cat that isn’t mine.
“Hey, Owe,” she says in a flat voice. Damn if she doesn’t look like she has the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Well, shit. If she’s this down in the dumps, I can’t just walk by like a giant douche.
The orange shop cat looks up from his nap, hisses, and jumps to the floor to run to the back of the shop.
“It’s okay, Harry,” Livvy says, calling after him. “Owen’s okay.”
I’mokay? Justokay?
Not easily defeated, I forge on. “Livvy, why don’t you stop by later, after you close? At least for a drink or something. The bartender’s come up with a new cocktail made of hemp-infused vodka, organic pressed green juice, and an edible flower garnish. Or something like that. He’s all excited about it. Sounds right up your alley.”
She gives me a half-hearted smile. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m kind of tired, what with everything that’s going on. And that Bartlett Murray stopped by earlier, nosing around.”
Oh. Shit. “Did you let on our suspicions?”
“I wanted to. Actually, I wanted to pour my dirty dog-washing water over his head. But I didn’t do that, either.”
There’s something awkward between us, but I don’t know what it is.
“What did he want?”
“You know how he is. Just ‘wanted to see how things were going,’ like he always does. I just smiled and stayed polite.”
Fuck me if this woman isn’t in a bad way. I walk around the counter to hug her, if she’ll let me. When I do, she quickly shuffles a bunch of papers around, but not before I get a glimpse of them.
Funny thing is, had she not touched them, my eye never would have been drawn toward them.
She’d made a handwritten list called ‘debts,’ and at the bottom of the disturbingly long list is a total.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Whoa.
