‘How it’s usually done,’ he said, giving her a lazy grin, ‘you’re supposed to say, “Hi, I’m Mandy; I’ll be your server.”’
The girls were both platinum blondes. They might’ve been twins. Anne looked at them as they giggled at the man’s wit; then she looked back at the man.
‘Take your order.’
‘What’s good here?’ one of the girls said. ‘Let’s have what’s good.’
‘Cheeseburger,’ the other girl said. ‘You have cheeseburgers, don’t you?’
‘It’s a fish joint, Angie,’ her double said. ‘You should order fish.’
‘I hate fish. It smells funny.’
‘Your name?’ The man was in his mid-thirties, about Anne’s age, and had a coarse black beard he hadn’t bothered with that morning, bristles glinting in the harsh sunlight.
‘It’s there on her shirt, the little tag,’ one of the girls said. ‘Anne Bonny.’
The man turned his head to the blonde.
‘I see the tag,’ he said. ‘I’d like to hear her say her name out loud.’
The blonde’s lips wrinkled into a practiced pout.
‘My name is Anne Bonny Joy. Can I take your order?’
‘That’s a weird name,’ the other girl said.
‘It’s an illustrious name,’ said the man. ‘Legendary.’
‘Never heard of it,’ the pouting girl said. ‘I think it’s stupid.’
‘Three hundred years ago,’ the man said, ‘Anne Bonny was the most famous woman in the world. Bigger than a movie star.’
‘There weren’t any movies three hundred years ago,’ the blonde said. ‘Were there?’
He was watching Anne’s face. His voice was dark and liquid and his blue eyes were fastened to hers, stealing past her usually impenetrable shield. She held her ground, her pencil poised above her pad. It was all she could manage. Seagulls squealed overhead. On the other side of the patio the reggae band started their version of ‘I Shot the Sheriff.’ The bell in the kitchen rang, another order up. Garlic and shrimp and coconut suntan oil floating on the breeze.
‘Anne Bonny was the greatest pirate of the Caribbean, ruthless and daring, the equal of any man.’
‘Big deal,’ the sulky one said.
‘My mother named me,’ Anne said. ‘It’s just a name.’
‘Whatever you say.’
The man touched a fingertip to the lip of his water glass, smiling down.
‘And your boat?’ Anne said. Irritated now, wanting to push back.
‘My boat?’
‘The Black Swan.’
‘Oh.’ He glanced out toward the docks, then let his eyes drift back to her. ‘It’s the name of an old movie with Tyrone Power.’
‘And Maureen O’Hara,’ said Anne.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, giving her a more careful look. ‘Who could forget Maureen O’Hara?’
‘Hey,’ said the sulky blonde. ‘Are we having lunch or what?’
In the Lorelei kitchen, Vic Joy made an offer. Seven million dollars.
And Milton Stammer, who owned the joint, said sure, sure, he’d think about it and get back to Vic real soon. Blowing Vic off.
‘What’s to think about?’ Vic said. ‘It’s two million more than the goddamn place is worth.’
Milton Stammer was a short balding man with a formidable paunch. He kept smoothing his hands across his bloated belly like a pregnant woman trying to get used to how big she’d grown.
‘Okay, so I sell you the restaurant, what am I going to do then, Vic? Move to Boca, sit in a golf cart all day, cocktails at four, early bird at five, sit around, talk about how everybody did on the back nine? I’m a blue-collar guy; I’m too freaking old to pick up golf.’
Vic glanced out the serving window and watched Thorn and his group sitting in the sun, waiting for their lunch. In his free time for the last few months, Vic had made Thorn his project. Shadowing him, asking around about the guy, trying to get a feel for what would motivate the asshole.
Today Vic had tagged along two cars back and wound up at the Lorelei, where his own sister worked. His estranged sister. Two of them hadn’t spoken in years.
When Thorn and his gang pulled into the Lorelei, Vic parked a few spaces away facing the sprawling restaurant and bar. He sat there for a moment watching Thorn and his friends walk into the place. Vic must’ve driven by the Lorelei a million times, but he’d never given it any serious real estate scrutiny. It had a nice ramshackle feel. A laidback, outdoorsy vibe. A nice fit with the rest of his holdings. Five minutes after pulling into the parking lot, he was inside the noisy kitchen, waving seven million bucks in front of the owner’s face. That’s how Vic Joy worked, relying on his creative juices. Weaving and bobbing as events took shape. He’d built a damn nice empire that way.
‘Place like this,’ Vic said, staring up at the ceiling, ‘all this wood. Must be a bitch to insure.’
Milton closed his eyes and shook his head solemnly.
‘A grease fire,’ Vic said. ‘Or maybe a smoker flicking his butt in the bathroom waste can, or bad wiring, overloaded circuits. Shit, it could start a hundred different ways. All this old timber, about twenty minutes all you got is ash and rubble. Then you’d be sorry as hell you didn’t take the six million.’
‘What happened to seven?’
‘Did I say seven? Well, I meant six.’ Vic watched the hubbub of the kitchen. Steam rising from the dishwashing machine. A darker steam coming from the deep-fat fryers. The Lorelei was a busy place, and prickly hot. Kitchen staff hustling back and forth, sending uneasy looks their way. Everyone knew Vic Joy, how he worked. ‘Actually, Milton, now that I take a careful look around, I’m going to have to back down to five mil. All this wood. This place is a fucking fire trap. I don’t know how it’s lasted as long as it has.’
Milton’s stubby arms hung at his sides. The man’s eyes were grayish and bulgy. A large man’s large eyes. Pry them out of their sockets, they’d fill your palm. For a second Vic flashed on an image of a couple of gray eyeballs floating inside a glass jar, suspended in formaldehyde. Make a nice addition to his collection.
He smiled at the big man, but Milton wasn’t in the smiling frame of mind.
‘I’ll tell you what I’m doing, Vic. I’m taking all that fire shit as a threat. I don’t know if that’s how you meant it, but that’s how I’m taking it. Now I want you to get the hell out of here. If I ever see your sorry ass around my restaurant again, I’ll call the cops. You got that? Tell them you been threatening me.’
‘The cops?’ Vic shivered and wobbled his hands in the air. ‘Be still my heart. Not the cops.’
Milton gave Vic a bitter glare, then about-faced and tramped across the buzzing kitchen to his office and shoved the door closed behind him.
Vic stepped over to the fry cook, a tall thin man with a hook nose. Guy’d been eavesdropping, sneaking looks.
‘You know who I am, kid?’
‘Vic Joy,’ the hook nose said.
‘Bingo.’
With a wide spatula the cook slid a burger onto a plate, then settled a fish sandwich onto another. Lettuce, tomato, pickle on the side.
‘Let