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“You have to go to the police, Nacho.”
“What? Just stroll into the LAPD and say, “Hey guess what? My restaurant has been laundering money for years. Funny story, actually.”
“I don’t know. Maybe FBI? CIA? NATO? You can’t take these guys on by yourself.”
“If I go to the authorities before I know our family is safe, the gang will go after Mom and Dad and every single one of us. They probably have corrupt law enforcement on their payroll. Haven’t you seen Narcos?”
“No. I can’t watch that stuff.”
“Are you going to help me or not?”
He sighs. “I’ll look into your policy. No promises.”
On our way back to his agency, we pass by a vacant commercial space. Out of habit, I cup my hands around my eyes and peek inside the darkened window. I can’t see much, but it’s spacious. I’d love to open a restaurant in downtown Laguna, but the rent must be astronomical.
“Thinking of bringing Dos Panchos to South OC?” asks Nate. He’s seen me peek inside enough windows to know what I’m looking for.
“Something like that,” I say.
This isn’t the market for Dos Panchos, but I don’t feel like explaining that to Nate. But the concept I’m working on with my friend Caleb would fit right in here. The demographics in this area are just what we’re going for.
Thinking of Caleb reminds me I haven’t asked him if he has info on Olive I need to know. He wouldn’t hire anyone who didn’t pass the background check with flying colors, but I’m curious. She went on and on about a bug. I assumed she meant a wire tap and almost lost my cool. But she continued with this crazy story about keeping Tía Lucy from eating an insect, of all things. Was she being serious? There’s something different about that girl, like she doesn’t think before speaking. Normally I’d find that incredibly annoying, but she seems to pull it off somehow. Like she’s a clumsy sprite with a penchant for technicolor word vomit. And the way she asked to be paid in tacos. Who does she think I am?
There’s a special place in hell for someone who fires the same person twice in one week. I wouldn’t do that unless I’m absolutely sure she’s a mole.
Olive is still at the restaurant when I return from visiting Nate. Her shift is ending and Bernadette is showing her how to make her bank drop into the floor safe. I watch with interest as she slips the envelope in the slot. If she’s gleaning information about where we keep our money, she’s good at hiding it.
When she’s finished with that, Josh, our bartender, calls her over with a flight of tequila on the bar. I check the time. He’s early today, which is a shocker. Josh has perfected the art of arriving fashionably late, but since he’s fast at setting up the bar and doesn’t need much prep time, we let it slide.
Right this second, he’s leaning over the bar, smiling at Olive the way I see him smile at pretty girls for tips. Olive is sitting on a barstool, enthralled by whatever Josh is saying. Girls love bartenders like Josh. I have no idea why. Yeah, there’s the dazzlingly white teeth and sculpted haircut. He looks perfectly put together in the black-on-black vest and dress shirt he wears. In reality, he’s just a dude who spends all his money at concert festivals and complains he’s always broke. His proficiency in mixology and flirting with the female clientele keeps him well stocked in butt-hugging jeans and hair gel, and that seems to be enough for him. I don’t have any issues with the guy. But right now, I don’t like the way he’s looking at Olive.
“What’s going on, Josh?” I slap my hand on the bar casually. Just the boss joining the pow wow.
“He’s giving me a tequila lesson,” says Olive, cheeks bright and perky, like crabapples perched on either end of her smile.
I raise my brows at Josh. “Are you now?”
Educating our servers on the spirits we sell isn’t strictly prohibited, but I don’t remember Josh offering this level of training to the barback we hired last summer. The guy didn’t last through August, but that’s not the point. Josh is giving Olive the special treatment.
He shrugs nonchalantly. “She didn’t know the difference between añejo and reposado.”
“That’s great. You know what, though? A shipment came in this morning, and I need you to take inventory. I’ll take it from here.”
“Oh…” He scratches the back of his neck. “Ooh-kay.”
Giving Olive a little wave, he goes into the back, leaving me alone with the new girl and a flight of tequila. I take Josh’s place behind the bar and lean on the speed rack, fixing my gaze on Olive, studying her tells. She looks back at me wide-eyed. This girl is no mole. I’m just paranoid and haven’t slept enough.
“What is it you’d like to know about tequila?” I ask, frowning at the way she beams at me. She’s like a chipmunk with that smile.
“Well, I’d like to know what’s good in a margarita,” she says. “Rosa tells me I should upsell whenever possible.”
“Okay, that’s a start.” I slide the flight of tequila directly in front of her. “At a glance, what’s the difference between these samples?”
She squints her nose. “Uh, color?”
“Exactly. And what gives tequila color?”
“The different varietals.” She seems proud of her answer. But she’s wrong.
