Bedroom Eyes (15 page)

“Do you take every comment so personally?” Mrs. Merlin clucked her tongue.

“Oh.” Embarrassed at her own inflated-sounding self-defense, Penelope shut her mouth and set about righting the towel rack that Mrs. Merlin had knocked over in her magical pole-vaulting.

“Ego out of balance comes about from the way we measure ourselves against others, not against ourselves.”

Penelope raked the spilled bath salts from the back of the toilet and dumped them into the crystal bowl. “In the shop, I was comparing myself to Mr. Gotho . . .” she paused, sure guilt showing on her face, “and to you, too, Mrs. Merlin, right before Mr. Gotho bounced me out.”

“Well, there you have it. Though I can’t imagine how you perceive yourself as more talented than I am, but it would put my own ego out of balance to dwell on that thought.” She rose and dusted her caftan off, then lifted her arms. “Now will you get me out of this dump?”

Penelope continued collecting the bath crystals. Ignoring the request, she said, “So where do the frog’s testicles come in?”

“Oh, that.” Mrs. Merlin waved a hand. “I’m afraid I was only having a little fun. I knew if Mr. Gotho accepted you as pure enough to transport my necessary ingredients, he’d know what to give you.”

“Fun? I made a fool of myself and you’re still pint-size. So what do we do now? You tell me that and maybe I’ll scoop you up out of the trash.” She dusted the bath salts from her fingers and stuck her hands on her hips, wondering how her life had gotten so out of balance.

“My, my,” Mrs. Merlin said. “We do have a temper, don’t we? But it’s simple, my dear. We wait for your ego to balance itself.”

Chapter 12

So far Squeek hadn’t steered him wrong.

Monday evening, Tony watched from a half block away as Hinson’s disgustingly flawless Lincoln Town Car pulled to a halt in front of one of New Orleans’ best French Quarter restaurants.

Primo’s was small and shared not half the national fame of Brennan’s or Galatoire’s or Ar-naud’s, but those who prided themselves on eating where the locals ate knew that Primo’s was an “in” place for special-occasion dinners and power business luncheons.

Hinson was pulling out all the stops to woo Penelope. Yet something about the setup was off. Tony frowned and studied the shuttered front of Primo’s, noting the absence of the valet. Of course! Anyone with half a claim to gourmand status knew Primo’s never opened on a Monday.

Hinson had to know that.

He worked for Primo’s owner.

Oh, the truth of that ownership was shrouded in dummy corporation upon dummy corporation, but both Hinson and his boss were regulars at Primo’s. Goodness knew, the two of them had probably created the sheltering companies that owned Primo’s.

Not that Tony had ever eaten inside the hallowed walls of Primo’s, but his cousin Leo ran the kitchen. Leo, who was ever-anxious to make peace with the family he’d alienated when he left his position at Olano’s Seafood to accept the top seat at Primo’s, had filled Tony in on what went on there. And Leo had told him they never opened on Mondays, not even for the owner.

Until tonight, Tony couldn’t remember ever seeing one good thing about Leo having gone over to the enemy. But now, when he needed to take a look inside Primo’s, he considered it a fat piece of luck that Leo had cared only for creating meals that shone like stars and had wanted nothing to do with family politics.

Finally some movement occurred within the Town Car. The driver’s door opened; Hinson stepped out, walked around the car, and opened the passenger door.

Out came Penelope.

“What the hell—” Tony couldn’t help himself. What the devil had she done to her hair? And her clothes! The times he’d seen her before, she’d been wearing that stuffy, proper sort of clothing that made him want to kid her a bit about dressing like her mama, but at the same time he’d respected her for it. Professional, it had said. Respect me and keep your distance.

He’d liked that. A heck of a lot better than the come-hither style of the Brenda-in-39B’s of this world.

Tonight, though, Penelope dressed like she’d been cast as the good girl gone bad in a high school play.

Tony swallowed hard and wondered whether Hinson was choking on his own spit. Here he was, driving up in all his glory to a goddamn restaurant that wasn’t even open, about to let a woman dressed like a hooker out of his overpriced car.

Tony let out a laugh, wondering if Penelope had dressed to show up Hinson for the ass he was. Then he sobered, quickly, as he wondered whether or not he’d had some sort of influence on her.

She’d caught him flirting with Brenda. Did she think she had to dress like a streetwalker to get his attention? Geez, whatever he’d done to give her that impression, he was sorry, more than sorry.

Then he looked again and couldn’t help but notice the way the clingy dress, slit to the thigh, showed off her legs in a way those tidy, prissy trousers had done their best to hide. He licked his lips, and his fingers itched to trace the line of the slit that inched up her leg.

The top of the dress had a low-cut neckline trimmed with ruffles. The ruffles danced and stood out in funny angles that he knew instinctively were caused by the rise and fall of her breasts. Convulsively, he swallowed. He was getting as hard as a live oak and in about two minutes he’d be jumping out of the car and wrestling Hinson to the ground to get a shot at Penelope.

He had to get hold of himself.

He didn’t know about Hinson, but Penelope had certainly gotten his attention.

Only one problem, Olano, he told himself as he climbed out of his car and, keeping to the shadows, approached the restaurant. She’s not doing this for you, she’s doing this for Hinson.

He liked that thought about as much as his stomach liked the smell of andouille sausage after a hard night’s drinking, back in his college partying days.

Tony inched closer, not wanting to miss the look on Hinson’s face when he discovered the doors to Primo’s were locked.

Hinson paused, placed one arm around Penelope’s shoulder in a possessive way that set Tony’s teeth on edge. She glanced up at him and Tony could have sworn he saw her lashes flutter.

The double doors of Primo’s swung open.

“Shit.” Tony kicked the side of the stoop where he’d halted, thankful Hinson couldn’t see
his
face. As soon as the doors closed, he took off at a lope around the building, cutting down an alleyway that ran between Primo’s and the next building, a T-shirt shop hawking every variety of New Orleans souvenir imaginable.

A shop, Tony knew, that Hinson’s boss used to launder money.

A shop Tony would love to bust.

One day, he promised himself, one day soon.

But tonight, first things first.

The iron gate at the back of the alleyway stood open, the padlock askew. Tony noted the sloppy security, something he expected in a so-called security building like Penelope’s but definitely not at Primo’s.

It would be just like his cousin Leo to leave a door unlocked and end up getting himself shot. With a shake of his head, Tony closed the gate after him and set up the padlock so a casual passerby would think the gate was shut up tight.

He turned around and rammed into a row of empty trash cans. Three of them tumbled over, clattering on the old brick of the courtyard.

Tony swore under his breath. Penelope had him rattled, and that wasn’t something that happened to Anthony Olano. He shook his head like a boxer clearing cobwebs and moved carefully around the other trash cans, piled-up produce boxes, and bins of empty bottles glistening under the light above the kitchen door.

The door stood open to the night, the staff inside no doubt trying to catch any breeze that might waft over from the nearby river. Tony paused in the doorway. Given the restaurant had opened up for Hinson, the kitchen should be well on its way to being heated to steam room temperature, even if they were working on a small scale tonight. Most of the local kitchens weren’t air-conditioned, and with the vats of boiling water and massive stovetops all lit at once, sweat was a way of life in the restaurant business.

Before he’d put one foot farther into the room, a short balding man wearing the kitchen uniform of white shirt, black checked pants, and once-white apron appeared at his side.

“Restaurant’s closed,” he said, blocking Tony’s way.

Tony smiled. “Just looking for Leo,” he said, “my cuz.”

The man didn’t budge, but he did yell over his shoulder, “Leo, you got a visitor.”

“Not during the soup,” came Leo’s horrified protest. “Who is it?”

“Tony,” Tony called out, loud enough for Leo to hear over the din of clattering pots and pans and the wail of a soprano issuing from the ceiling-mounted speakers.

“Oh, it’s only you.”

The short man evidently took that as permission for Tony to pass, because he nodded and disappeared back to whatever corner he’d been hanging out in.

Leo kept his kitchen clean. Tony gave his cousin that much credit as he crossed toward the center of the brightly lit, almost antiseptic-looking room. Gleaming pans hung from overhead racks, five or six assistants worked at scattered stations, and in the center of the room in front of a double-wide cooktop counter, Leo reigned supreme.

A baritone joined in with the soprano and Tony winced. Opera and cooking had occupied Leo’s attention since their childhood. He and Leo had grown up across the street from one another, their families sharing every holiday at one house or the other, along with a noisy, countless extended family.

At an early age, Leo had begun creating dishes for these occasions; Tony had distinguished himself by planting frogs in his female cousins’ blouses and letting off noisy fireworks.

Apparently Leo had finished the most critical stage of the soup, for he handed his large cooking spoon to an assistant and, arms outstretched, advanced on Tony. He grabbed him in a bear hug and landed a kiss on both cheeks for good measure.

Tony withstood the greeting. He needed Leo’s help, and despite the family rift over Leo’s decision to go to work for Primo’s, he loved his cousin.

When he’d been released from the embrace, Tony said in casual tones, “Hey, cuz, what’s cooking?”

“You came to see me to talk about food?” He smiled. “There’s hope for you after all, little cousin.”

Tony returned the smile. Leo had always had a good two inches and at least twenty pounds on him. “Hey, I thought it was about time I came to see where you’re working. Make sure they’re treating you okay.”

Leo stiffened. Tony knew he’d said the wrong thing.

His cousin flicked a drying drop of milk off his otherwise spotless apron. “The family sent you, I gather?”

Tony shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.” Geez, just what he needed—to get his cousin’s back up when Tony needed a favor from him.

He placed his hands on his cousin’s shoulders. Leo appreciated the dramatic gesture. “I swear to you, Leo Olano, on our grandmother Anna’s grave, that I’m here on my own.”

Leo returned his gaze, his eyes troubled.

Then, after a very long moment, in which Tony knew he didn’t take a single breath, Leo said, “Then sit down and eat. There’s no meat on you.”

Tony laughed and dropped his hands. He sniffed the air. “What’s for dinner?”

Leo raised his hands prayerfully. “Only my best for tonight. To begin, my escarole escargots, followed by cream of artichoke soup—you know, the one Mama invented, only I do it with a shrimp bisque base—”

“Sounds great, Leo,” Tony said. His cousin could go on all night about one dish, let alone a complete menu. “So what’s the occasion?”

Leo made a face and shrugged, looking more Gaelic than Italian. “A man and a woman. There’s no accounting for taste.”

Tony smothered a smile and fiddled with a container of oversized cook spoons. “So when did ya’ll start opening on Monday nights?”

Leo turned away, moved back to where the assistant stood stirring his artichoke soup. “You disappoint me, Tony,” he said, dispatching that assistant and the other young man working nearby on quickly ordered tasks.

With no one else in earshot, he tweaked the remote control, raised the volume on the stereo, and looked Tony straight in the eye.

“So what do you really want from me?”

Tony fingered the tiny, supersensitive transmitter housed in his jeans pocket. Careful, Olano, not too fast, not too slow. “A favor?”

“A favor.” Leo shook his head, the picture of dejection. “You couldn’t just come visit me, could you? No, that wouldn’t be my cousin Tony. A man of purpose, you’ve always been.” Crimson rising on his cheeks, he stirred the soup more quickly. “So what’s your purpose tonight?”

“Hey, Leo, I’m a chump.” Tony shifted, then stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You’re my cousin and I love you. I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. It’s just that . . .” he gestured around.

Leo ducked his head. “What you and the others don’t understand is that after I work here, I can work anywhere. I can write my own ticket.” He thrust out his lower lip.

Tony wondered how many other people had thought that by making their own deal with their own personal devils they’d escape paying the price when called due. Leo was fooling himself. As long as Primo’s owner wanted Leo as chef, no other restaurant in the city would offer him a job. But if Leo helped him tonight and Tony eventually won this war of his, Leo would be free.

Another assistant walked up. Leo sent him to the walk-in cooler to collect the escargots.

Tony made a face, wondering how anyone could eat the snails, creatures he routinely picked from his begonias and squashed beneath his feet. Leaning closer, making a show of studying the soup, knowing the short, bald-headed enforcer near the back door would be watching him, he said, “I need you to get this teeny-weeny object onto Hinson’s table.

Leo blanched and looked over his shoulder. “I can’t get in trouble. You know that.”

“Listen to me, Leo. This is important or I wouldn’t ask. I would never put you in danger.” Fingering the bug, he said, “It’s a personal favor, a huge favor, but maybe you could help me out on this one?” Even as he spoke, he checked for some object that could believably be carried to Hinson’s table.