If Cooks Could Kill Page 11

  “It can’t be great,” Dennis countered. “The place is too small. I’m surprised you three have held on this long. Don’t you understand—”

  “I understand you’re gonna get a flat nose if you don’t stop badgerin’ me.” Vinnie waved a fist. “We like things the way they are. Capisce?”

  “Forget it, Dennis,” Max said. “I don’t want the job anyway.”

  “Sure you do!” Dennis insisted, whirling toward Max now.

  “I don’t like it either,” Butch said. “Too many from the past showin’ up, first her, now him. What’s going on, Dennis?”

  Max paled, staring first at Dennis, then Connie. He turned on his heel and walked out.

  Connie stood. “Max!” she called.

  Dennis rushed out the door after him.

  “What in the world is going on?” Angie also jumped to her feet and gripped Connie’s wrist. “Do you understand any of it?”

  “Not at all.” They sat back down, but Connie’s eyes never left the window as she watched Dennis and Max outside.

  Soon they parted, Max heading south and Dennis north.

  “Excuse me.” Connie stood. “I’ve got to get back to work. My helper couldn’t stay all afternoon.”

  “But—” was all she heard Angie say before she dashed outside.

  Max was about a block ahead of Connie, heading south on Columbus Avenue. Staying within the shadows of the buildings, she followed him. He turned onto Mason, a street lined with three-story flats and a couple of small apartment buildings. As he walked up three steep blocks, she followed, gasping for breath by the time she reached the third. At a corner, he turned onto Vallejo and halfway down the block entered a yellow building with brown trim. Expecting it to be a roominghouse, she hurried after him, stopping when she read the sign beside the door. It was a homeless shelter.

  She reread the sign a couple of times, then pushed open the door. Max stood at the registration desk.

  “What are you doing here?” He sounded furious.

  “You have to know. I want my money.” She lifted her chin.

  The clerk handed him a ticket with a cot number and a folded gray cotton-flannel blanket. He tucked the blanket under his arm and faced her. “It’s gone.”

  “Gone?” If he lived like this, how could he have spent a hundred-eighty dollars already? “You spent it all? On what?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It was wasted.” With a sneer, he walked away. His dismissal of her stung worse than his words.

  “You wasted my money! You rat! You thief!” She dogged his heels. Visions filled her—of slapping him, kicking him, grabbing him by the throat and shaking sense into him, anything to get him to react to her and the awful way he made her feel. “How dare you do that to me when I was just trying to help you?”

  He spun on her, his mouth twisted with bitterness. “You saw what just happened at that restaurant. Would I have put up with that…humiliation…if I had money?”

  Shocked, she stared at him.

  He walked into the men’s room. So angry she didn’t hesitate, she followed and slammed the bathroom door shut behind her. “I need it back! Why don’t you get a loan from your rich friend Dennis? You two are so chummy! Why take from me? How am I supposed to live? I should move into a place like this right beside you, maybe? That money was important to me!”

  He leaned toward her. “Of course it was. You’re a woman, aren’t you? Why isn’t love enough for you?” His voice dropped, and his words were addressed more within himself than to Connie.

  “What are you talking about? I invited you to my house—”

  His head snapped toward her. “That was as stupid a move as I’ve ever seen.”

  Beyond fury, she yelled at him. “You were sick, damn you! That’s what I get for caring!”

  He bent over the sink and ran water onto his cupped hands. “You want money so much”—he splashed the water onto his face, then patted it dry with a paper towel—“put your money on Geostar Biotechnologies. It sells over-the-counter as GSBT. It’ll make you back what I took and lots more.”

  “What kind of a smarmy line is that?” She yanked the paper towel from him, wadded it, and hurled it at the back of his head. “I’m supposed to take stock tips from a guy who lives like this? You’re even crazier than I thought!”

  An elderly man wearing a knit cap and layers of dirty, stained clothes, suddenly teetered around from the urinal, waved blithely at them, and stumbled out. He didn’t seem to notice any necessity to zip up his sagging pants. She quickly lifted her eyes toward the ceiling. Max chuckled as he picked up the crumbled paper and put it into the trash receptacle.

  His laughter was her undoing. “The hell with you, Max Squire!” she yelled, then turned and ran out of the dreadful place and into the street. There, she stopped, half expecting him to follow her out, apologize, anything. The paint-chipped brown door stayed shut.

  “To hell with you!” she repeated, and stomped her way through the streets to her car.

  Chapter 12

  “You’ll know where Max is, okay?” Dennis needed every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep from shouting at Veronica. “I convinced my uncle and Vinnie—Earl’s opinion doesn’t matter—to let him do their federal income taxes. They’re due soon, which means he’ll be in the restaurant trying to make sense out of the papers and receipts they’ve got stashed all over the place. I don’t think they’ve ever filed before, and if the business is legit, they have to.”

  “So little Dennis wants to run a sports bar,” Veronica sneered. “A legitimate, tax-paying sports bar. What a loser you are!”

  They sat at a small table in the Porcupine, one of the best new restaurants in the city. She took a sip of Moët champagne and smiled as the bubbles tickled her nose. Champagne and oysters Rockefeller were her dream when she was in the slammer. Now, she had both.

  “You just don’t know how to think big, do you?” Dennis glowered at her.

  “Right. A sports bar in a dump is big thinking. I’m so impressed.” She leaned forward. “Listen, you pig, I’m sick of waiting for you. I don’t give a goddamn about Max Squire as long as he stays the hell away from me. I want my cut now, and I want out. Do you understand?”

  “The money I got isn’t going to last forever, Veronica,” Dennis said. “I got to think of the future—our future—and there’s a lot a sweet little legitimate-looking operation like that can do.”

  “Don’t give me that ‘our future’ crap. I gave up listening to you years ago.”

  “Hey, you and me. It’s always been about us.”

  “No. It’s always been about you and football. And now it’s dumped you. Just like I’m going to. You’ve got two days, then life won’t be so easy for you, Dennis.”

  “You can’t threaten me.”

  “I think I just did.”

  He crushed the napkin, his teeth clenched. “Without me, you’d have nothing.”

  She smiled wickedly. “You forgot about Max. It was his system I tapped into. He’ll know how to get into it, with or without you.”

  The words spat from his mouth. “You really think Max would do anything to you other than put a bullet through your cold little heart?”

  “I know he would.” She laughed in his face. “And now that I know how to locate him…”

  “I could kill you myself. You bitch!” he shouted.

  “That’s what you’ve always loved about me, sugar, and don’t forget it.” With a dismissive sneer at his sputtering outrage, she smugly returned to her champagne and oysters.

  Angie shivered as another blast of cold air hit her. The Porcupine was crowded, and she and Stan were stuck right near the front door, which meant every time someone came in or went out, she felt it. She hadn’t wanted to stay home tonight. Paavo was working, and Connie was still fuming over their aborted lunch. Stan was her last resort, and anyway, she owed him for dragging him across town to meet Helen. He’d barely escaped that encounter with his life; Angie expected to see him tu
rned into a human pretzel.

  The seating arrangement didn’t say much for a restaurant that had the best buzz, at the moment, in town. Just to bypass the reservations, she’d had to use her father’s name with the maître d’, something she didn’t like to do routinely. Salvatore Amalfi had started as a shoe salesman and grown to become the owner of a chain of shoe stores and several buildings in San Francisco. He had more than a few friends in high places.

  The restaurant wasn’t at all what Angie had expected. One wall was brick, looking more like an outside wall than the inside of a top restaurant, and in keeping with the outside “theme,” black rafters showed on the ceiling. Brown paper was placed on the tabletops instead of fine linen, and when the bread was delivered, the waiter just dropped a small, freshly made loaf on the table.

  She guessed it was a rich man’s rustic chic decor—alley dining at its finest.

  A familiar-sounding voice cut through the noise of conversation and the clatter of the kitchen that stood open in one corner of the room, separated from the diners only by a high counter—she guessed so customers could be sure the cooks weren’t spitting in the soup or anything.

  Seated at a far table was Dennis Pagozzi, and with him, a woman. What was going on?

  She hadn’t noticed him when she and Stan had entered. She hadn’t noticed much at all, since they’d been seated immediately by the door. Maybe her father’s name didn’t have quite the clout she thought it had.

  Suddenly, Dennis and the woman stood to leave. What should she do? She didn’t want Dennis to know he’d been seen with another woman, although she might not have been a date. They didn’t seem like a loving couple.

  What about Connie? Should she tell Connie she saw Dennis out with another woman? He wasn’t exactly beating down Connie’s door, but still, there was hope for the two of them, wasn’t there? She also remembered the stark look on Connie’s face when that other guy, that Max Squire, had entered Wings. Just what was going on there?

  Suddenly, they turned toward the door. She bent down and stuck her head under the tablecloth.

  “Angie, what are you doing?” Stan lifted his side of the supposedly chichi brown paper and peeked under the table at her.

  “Shush!”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want some people to see me. They’re leaving. Let me know when they’re gone.”

  Stan straightened in his seat, munching on bread and salted olive oil, and Angie stayed under there, waiting and waiting…and waiting.

  “Stan!” she whispered. “Stan!”

  He stuck his head under the table again. “Yes?”

  “Haven’t they left yet?”

  “Who?”

  “The people I don’t want to see me. A big guy with black hair and a blond woman.”

  “Oh, them. Yeah. They’ve gone. I didn’t know who it was you were hiding from.”

  She sat back up and had to wait a minute before telling him what a jerk he was because bent over that way, the blood rushed to her head and when she sat back up too quickly, she felt woozy. “You would have just left me sitting under the table, I suppose?”

  “I didn’t even know what you were talking about, so pardon me for living! I came here as a favor to you, remember.”

  A favor to his stomach was more like it. Stan loved to eat. Coming with her to this restaurant was no hardship.

  “So, what shall we have?” Stan said, more to himself than Angie, as he drooled over the expensive menu. “Anytime you feel like doing more matchmaking, Angie, keep me in mind.”

  Chapter 13

  “Angelina Amalfi?” asked a pleasant voice on the telephone.

  “Yes.” She found the web-page link she’d been searching for and clicked on it.

  “I’m Kara Saunders, from KRAK-TV. We were recently talking about adding a cooking show to our Saturday morning line-up, and your name came up as a potential host for it. Someone remembered something you were involved in called…let me see…Angelina in the Cucina. Is that correct?”

  Despite Angie’s concentration on the Internet, she still cringed at the horrible name. The show never got off the ground. “That’s right.” Nope. That wasn’t the information she wanted. She tried another link.

  “We’re going to hold some auditions, but I’ll be honest, you’re number one on our list. Do say you’ll come and try out for us.”

  “What? TV? I don’t do TV,” Angie murmured. As the web page unfolded, she smiled. It was exactly what she was looking for, and right here in San Francisco, too.

  The woman on the phone kept talking. “You aren’t saying you’re not interested, are you?” Kara asked, sounding crestfallen. “Don’t you want to think about it? Hear the terms we’re offering? The benefits? The publicity?”

  A knock sounded. “Oh, my! Someone’s at the door.” She used the cursor to save the page to Favorites, smiling as she read about leprechauns and shamrocks. What fun! “I’ve got to run.”

  “But—”

  “Good-bye!”

  She put down the phone and stared at the web page a moment longer. Wasn’t the Internet wonderful, and wouldn’t Paavo be surprised? She could hardly wait to see his joyous expression, feel his gratitude, his love…

  The knock sounded again, jerking her from her reverie. She dashed to open the door. It might be FedEx with the books she’d ordered about engagement parties. She’d hunted all over the city’s bookstores, but couldn’t find a thing that—

  “Hi. Remember me?”

  Angie stared in surprise at the man in her doorway—tall, blond, muscular, with a craggy face and twinkling blue eyes, and wearing a gray sweatshirt with cut-off sleeves and paint-and-grease-splattered jeans. A sort of Jeff Bridges or young Kris Kristofferson type. No way she could forget him.

  “You’re Connie’s ex-husband,” she said. “Kevin, right?” Of course, she knew his name was Kevin, but she didn’t want to make him think she and Connie had spent much time discussing him, which, of course, they had. In fact, if she thought of all the things Connie had told her about Kevin, she’d blush.

  “That’s me.” He put his hands on his hips and smiled.

  She had no idea what he was doing there, but good manners won out. “Won’t you come in?”

  “Thanks. I wanted to talk to you about Connie.” He slowly entered the apartment, taking in, first of all, the view of San Francisco Bay that stretched from the Golden Gate to the Bay Bridge, with Alcatraz centered like a picture postcard. “Kee-rist!” he muttered under his breath. His gaze then leaped to her antique furniture, entertainment system, and lingered a moment on the Cézanne lithograph. Was Kevin an art lover? If half of what Connie had said was true, she should tell him it was a reproduction.

  None of her art or antique furniture were reproductions and she certainly didn’t want him sitting on anything with a light fabric. “How about some coffee?” she asked. “I’ve got some cheesecake in the refrigerator as well. Why don’t we sit at the table?”

  She led him away from the living room to her dining area off the kitchen. The table and chairs were cherry-wood. “Thanks,” he said, plunking himself down with all the ease of a man making himself at home. Angie peered surreptitiously at his shoes. Old construction boots. At least he didn’t leave a trail of mud. The building owner—her father—was really going to have to start paying a doorman once again. San Francisco wasn’t the East Side of Manhattan. Doormen were unknown here except for a few exclusive condos.

  “That sounds great,” he said. “Connie always liked to eat those gooey chocolate desserts—women’s desserts, I call them. Cheesecake is a man’s food.”

  “Really? I’d never thought of it that way before.”

  “Yeah. Lots of my buddies feel like that.”

  “Interesting.” She went into the kitchen and cut a slice of cake for Kevin. She’d made it that morning for Paavo, who was coming over later. He liked cheesecake a lot. Maybe Kevin was right? But Paavo also liked other cakes and pastries, more elaborate ones,
like Italian Rum Cake…

  After giving Kevin cake and coffee, and pouring herself a cup, she sat down. “So, what brings you here?” she asked.

  “I’m worried about Connie.” He stuffed a big piece of cake in his mouth, and made appreciative noises as he rolled it around on his tongue. Obviously not too worried, she thought.

  She waited until he’d swallowed to be sure he wouldn’t answer with a mouthful of mooshy dessert. “What are you worried about?”

  “I heard she’s been seeing some guy connected with football. The Forty-Niners. Big joke, huh?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  He put the fork down, blue eyes widening. “So, it’s true?”

  “I’m not saying it isn’t.”

  He looked stricken. “Those guys are out of her league. She’s just a nice kid. Innocent, you know. I don’t trust guys like that.”

  And Angie didn’t trust him. “Connie can handle herself.”

  He finished the cake before asking, “Is he a nice guy, at least? Is he…white?”

  She nearly spat out her coffee. “He’s Italian, okay? Will that do?”

  His eyebrows nearly touched his hairline. “Ohmygod! Not…not Joe Montana?”

  “Don’t you think he’s a little old for her? Not to mention that he’s married?”

  Kevin folded his tanned and tattooed arms. “I don’t remember that that’s stopped her before.”

  “If so, she didn’t know it when she started dating such a guy!” Angie said indignantly, and suppressed the urge to stab him with his own fork. “Anyway, you just said she was an innocent.”

  He stood, sliding his fingertips into his back pockets, and strode to the window. “So, she has met someone who’s a big deal.” He stared at the bay a long moment. “I didn’t think it’d happen.”

  Angie felt a twinge of pity for him. She made no reply. Was Kevin actually remorseful about the way he’d treated Connie? She knew Connie had been crazy about him, but when he’d been given the choice between his wife and heroin, the drug had won out. Angie wondered if he’d cleaned up sufficiently, and for long enough, that Connie would be interested in him again.