Shelter (13 page)

The buyer twitched a practiced, humorless grin. “My boss is a lot higher up on the food chain than you, so nobody cares about your name around here.”

Guy was cocky as shit, and what was worse was the possibility he might have the backing to prove the statement true. “And your boss is - ?”

“Someone you don’t wanna piss off.”

As Sean watched the asshole lace his fingers together over the table top, his expression self-assured and smug, he was struck by how un-Carlos-like he was. Of all the Latino dudes looking for a job in Atlanta, and he’d ended up with Chicken-shit Morales, cousin to the much more reliable, but unfortunately dead Hard-ass Morales.

“A’ight,” Sean turned on the gangsta. “I ain’t tryin’ to piss anybody off.
You
called
me
, so how ‘bout we cut the shit and get down to business?”

“Fair enough,” he shrugged, and then reached for the no-doubt designer coat resting in the booth beside him. He produced a plain white legal sized envelope from its pocket and slid it across the table toward Sean.
“My boss,” his voice took on an official quality, like he’d done this before, like it was his sales pitch, “is a very serious businessman. His interests are extremely diversified.”

In the part of his brain that remembered he was a cop, Sean laughed. This had to be the most high-and-mighty, ridiculous explanation of outlaw activity he’d ever heard. And he’d worked an outlaw motorcycle club case down in Tampa.

“Currently,” Diego continued, “he’s looking to absorb some smaller organizations, like yours, rather than create numerous ventures of his own.”

“You’re talking about franchising?”

“Essentially, yes. He contacts people like you and you become part of the family, so to speak. You sell your current inventory, but rather than competing with him, you sell for him, and you keep a generous cut of the earnings.”

Sean was not stupid;
he knew this was not the equivalent of a bank merger, or an acquisition. This was a takeover. Or an attempted one at least.

He frowned. “How generous?”

“Very.”

His frown deepened. “You know, I’m real happy with the setup I got right now. Maybe I don’t need anybody’s goddamn generosity.”

The buyer tipped his head in a gesture of false acquiescence. “Maybe not…then again,” his dark eyes hardened a touch, became more sinister. Some of the rich-frat-boy façade dropped off of him and, aside from the wardrobe, he looked like just another street rat. “You might find it awfully hard to keep your accounts if you refuse.”

Sean imagined his CO salivating at the steak this punk had just laid before him. This was it: what the department had been working toward for months. What would land him a promotio
n to Homicide. This “serious businessman,” as Diego had put it, was the mark the PD had named codename: Rockefeller. The drug kingpin who was pushing out all the small time dope-peddlers in the city and surrounding suburbs. This was precisely why he’d brought Sam and Carlos into the fold: to tap into that Marietta/Smyrna/Sandy Springs market. Because Rockefeller wasn’t content just to control the metropolis. He was greedy like that.

But guilt was pulling at him too, reminding him that his chase for detective glory had gotten an old high school friend killed.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully. “I think I’ve heard of your boss.”

“Hmm?” the other guy
seemed perfectly at ease, but his eyebrows gave a little jump.

“Yeah,” Sean nodded, “didn’t he put Skinny Joe outta business?”

Diego shrugged.

“Yup.” He rubbed at his jaw, calling on all his acting skills. “Makes sense. Shit, guess I better get with the program, huh?” he pushed out a hearty, what he hoped was sincere laugh.

“It’s the smart thing to so,” the buyer said. “And it’s a great opportunity for you. You keep all your contacts, plus we’ll help you expand further. Your guys deal northeast of the city, yeah?”

“Mostly.”

He nodded. “That’s exactly where my boss needs someone. You’ll be a great fit, Sean.”

“I bet.” Sean took a glance around, surprised they hadn’t yet been disturbed by a waitress. That was the downside to public meets: you had to deal with the public. But he saw that no one, neither customer nor employee, was so much as glancing in their direction. A little chill rattled down his spine. “Suppose I agree, how’s this work?” he asked, turning back to the buyer.

“I’ll be your liaison, you’ll never talk to my boss directly. We can set it all up over the phone in the next couple of weeks.”

Gilbert would thump him on the back so hard his filling
s got dislodged from his teeth.

Diego withdrew a pen from his pocket, a nice pen, clicked it on and scribbled a number on the envelope. “You can reach me here, but do not leave a message if I don’t pick up. All you need is in here,” he tapped the envelope and stowed the pen, grabbed up his coat and made a move to slide out of the booth.

“Hold up a sec,” Sean said. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“Back in October, one of my best guys got gunned down. He was making a deliver and shit went south.” He leveled a hard stare at the younger man. “This whole franchising shit – that wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would it?”

His thoughts were confirmed by Diego’s little facial shrug. And then the guy was gone.

**

“No incidents?” Emily asked over the rim of her coffee cup.

Alma popped the last bite of her Asiago cheese bagel into her mouth and shook her head. “None,” she said once she’d swallowed, reaching for her tea. “At least not yet anyway.”

The other waitress was a redhead, and the sun streaming through the windows made it shine like copper, highlighted each and every freckle across the bridge of her nose. She was stern and serious, but not unkind. And once Alma had realized that she wasn’t being resented for her mistakes the day before, it was nice to think that there was, if not a friendly face at work, than at least one who was willing to sit across from her during their break. Emily had punched out right after her, telling Megan and Kelsey to cover their tables for fifteen minutes.

The café, so quiet before, was now bustling. Families fresh from church in their Sunday best were seated wall to wall, the tumble of voices and click of china a warm, homey sound. The windows were steamed thanks to the contrast of interior warmth and exterior chill. The November leaves were brown and crackled in the landscaped medians of the parking lot. Had circumstances been different, Alma would have been perfectly happy with the day.

“So,” Emily said without preamble. “If you have a college degree, why in the world are you waiting tables?”

Alma shrugged. “The economy.” She got an arched brown in return. “And
after I was let go from my old publishing house, immediate employment was a necessity.”

The redhead narrowed her eyes that were the color of polished emeralds in the sun. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

She was surprised. “Am I showing that much already?”

Emily twitched a half grin. “My sister has three kids. You’re just holding yourself in that expectant mother way.”

Alma nodded. “Due in April.”

“Congrats.” Her eyes slid to Alma’s wedding band. “Planned or a surprise?”

“Surprise.”

Emily wrinkled up her nose. “My brother-in-law, Chris, he a
lways said he hated kids. ‘Bout divorced my sis when he found out she was knocked up. They worked it out though.”

“That’s good.” She shifted in her seat, not liking where the conversation was going.

“What about your hubby?”

“Dead.”

Emily’s cup clicked down into her saucer and her expression went blank with shock. “Oh. Um, wow. Sorry.”

Alma forced herself to shrug.
The more she had to say that Sam was dead, the more real it became. But it got easier too: not dealing with it, but expressing it in a way that didn’t leave her bawling and other people backpedaling away from her. She covered her frown with another sip of tea and let her eyes go wandering across the café. Her break was almost over and her stomach quickened in anticipation of getting back to work. She was hoping and praying her new record of perfection didn’t get broken by another accident.

The Silver Plate was at the very end of the shopping center, and it had a small footprint, so it gave the impression of a bustling, thriving little business. It was exactly the kind of setting Alma loved to write about. She could have spent hours taking note of all the tiny details and thinking up ways to put them on the page. The tendrils of steam rising off the fresh muffins, the cloying scent of coffee, the holly leaves drawn into the corners of the daily specials chalkboard, the eclectic mix of patrons. Couples and singles, children and friends and mothers…

Her mother.

“Oh shit,” she breathed, sitting up straight in her chair.

“What?” Emily took a glance around the café, searching for the source of her distress.

“My mom’s here.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“A very bad thing. Excuse me.”

Alma pushed up from the table, gathered her cup and plate and rushed toward the back, barely avoiding a collision with an elderly man on his way to the restroom. She tied her apron back on, popped a Tic-Tac and checked her makeup in the door of one of the stainless refrigerators, ensuring there was nothing too offensive about her appearance. All Diane needed was more ammunition.

“Table twelve is yours,” Kelsey told her as she came back out on the floor. Which was, of course, where Diane was sitting.

“Surprise, surprise,” she muttered, weaving her way through the tables. When she drew to within a few feet, she saw that her mom was not sitting alone. And that her companion was a petite blonde with big ringlets in her hair and little pixie features. Seeing Caroline had been startling the other day. Seeing her at a table with Diane was mind-boggling.

“Good afternoon,” she said in her sing-song waitress voice, propping a hip up against the table. “I’ll be taking over for Kelsey. Are you ladies ready to order something to eat?”

Diane ran a finger around the rim of her coffee mug and rolled her eyes. “Please, Alma, you could at least act like you know us.”

“Okay. Mom, Caroline, are you ready to order something to eat?”

Her mother huffed in exasperation.

Caroline, though, had the grace to look sheepish. “Alma, I swear, I had no idea yo
u were working here. Your mom - ”

“Don’t defend yourself,” Diane interrupted. “This is a restaurant. We have a right to eat here.” She glanced up at her daughter. “Don’t we?”

Thinking of a snappy comeback would be too time-consuming and mentally-draining, so Alma sighed, tucked her hair behind her ears with her pen hand. “I didn’t know you guys still saw each other.”

They both seemed a bit uncomfortable. Diane, she knew, only enjoyed snarkiness so long as both parties participated. If Alma acted hurt, it took all the fun out of the game and became something serious. She scanned the one-page, laminated menu again and wedged it back in its stand between the pepper and napkin dispenser. “A plain croissant and the milk and granola, please.”

Caroline kept her eyes averted as she asked for a turkey club and a refill on her Coke.

So her mom still spent time with her best friend. What did the two of them talk about: how screwed up Alma’s life choices were? The thought was so distracting, she was unable to stress about her other tables, and thus didn’t spill so much as a drop of coffee. Waitressing wasn’t so bad so long as she didn’t overthink it.

              When they were finished, Diane paid the tab at the counter, gave Caroline a hug and left first. Caroline lingered, and as Alma made a trip back to the bakery counter, she was intercepted.

             
“Alma, I’m so sorry,” Caroline reached for her arm, but recoiled at the last minute. Instead she clasped her hands together, eyes pleading. “I had
no
idea you were working here and if I had, I swear I wouldn’t have come in.”

After their awkward encounter in the grocery store, Alma was tempted to wave her away and offer a noncommittal comment about today’s run-in being “fine” or “no big deal
.” But in truth, it had been a big deal. And being caught off guard took all her forced politeness out of the equation. She put her hands on her hips. “How often do you two get together and,” she gestured toward the other café patrons.

Caroline winced. “Every couple of weeks or so.”

“For how long?”

Another wince
. “Since, um, you married Sam - ”

“Three years!”
Alma exclaimed, and then checked her tone. “Three years? Why?”

The blonde
sighed, let her hands fall to her sides, no longer keeping up the remorseful pretense. “Despite what you think, your mother is not some blood-thirsty troll out to control everyone’s lives.” Her eyes filled up with hurt. “I lost my best friend, Alma, because you were so paranoid I thought you shouldn’t be with Sam.” She crossed her arms and shrugged. “Guess your mom was the closest thing I was gonna get to you since you wouldn’t talk to me.”