Espresso Shot Read online

  “Whoa . . .” I croaked. “That clears your sinuses.”

  “Feeling good, Clare?” Chastain grinned big as he took another look down my blouse. “Pleasure chemicals are releasing now in that hot and tasty little body of yours to counteract the capsaicin. Endorphins are a real aphrodisiac, by the way. It ain’t opium, but it’s legal.”

  Good Lord, Chastain’s getting drunker by the dish. But I’m not cutting him any slack. One more look down my blouse, and I’m pouring that hot sauce down his pants!

  Neville Perry opened his mouth and waved air into it. “I’d serve this—if I still had a restaurant.”

  The tone was dry again. Perry was back to self-deprecation. He even shot me a wink. Clearly, my friendship with the hated Breanne wasn’t that serious of an issue to him.

  Maybe if I poke the wound a little . . .

  “But, Neville, your restaurant was ruined. Your reputation shredded. Don’t you miss running your own business?”

  Perry shook his head. “Truthfully, Clare, I have no regrets. In the end, having the Wicked Witch of Style criticize my restaurant was a stroke of luck.”

  “Luck?” I blinked. “You’re being ironic, right?”

  I was waiting for the rage, the obscenities, the verbal threats to Breanne that he’d naturally want me to convey to her. But Perry remained relaxed, authentically, it appeared.

  “Honestly, running that place was wearing me down. Now that it’s closed, I’ve launched a new career as a food writer. My blogs about Breanne have opened up some surprising opportunities. Her rival publications are lining up to offer me assignments in their magazines, a publisher’s just bought my cookbook, and two newspaper syndicates are in a bidding war to put me under contract for a national column on food and wine.”

  “Wait . . . you’re saying that you’re happy with how things turned out?”

  Neville shrugged. “In a way, I owe Breanne a thank-you—not that she’s ever going to get one from me. Skewering Trend’s trendsetter is just too damn much fun. She’s burned a lot of people over the years, and they’re my most loyal readers.”

  Neville Perry was glowing now, and it was more than the effect of the bhut jolokia. The culinary school graduate was obviously a mama’s boy who wanted fame and fortune but didn’t want to work very hard or long to get it. Writing blog entries and restaurant reviews was apparently a lot easier for Perry than running a restaurant, so he’d found a happier career path. He looked pretty proud of himself, too, and the truth is, the man really was turning his devastating failure into success. I couldn’t condemn him for that. More to the point, I was beginning to conclude that Matt’s bride-to-be had been right all along.

  This man was a joker (or a joke, depending on your view of his past). But a killer? No, I don’t think so. Sure, his feelings toward Breanne weren’t charitable, but then neither were mine.

  I began to get irritated with myself for going on this wild-goose chase. The day felt totally wasted. What I’d witnessed at Breanne’s magazine was classic office politics. Big deal. Alert the media. Neville Perry’s black-wrapped meat cleaver was my strongest lead—and it had led me to a dead end. I was sure of it.

  I forcefully speared another piece of stingray and dipped it in the hotter-than-hell sauce. But before I could take the first bite, there was a loud crash in the foyer, and a woman cried out.

  I stared in horror, the skewer hanging between my plate and my mouth, as our gentle hostess was pushed through the kitchen doorway so hard she bounced off the wall. Then the waiters and two men in kitchen smocks marched into the room single file, their hands behind their heads.

  Finally, three men charged into the room. They were all in dark clothes, and their heads and faces were covered with black ski masks. The tallest of the three waved a big, nasty-looking handgun.

  “If nobody moves, nobody gets hurt,” said the tall man with the gun, his voice muffled by the ski mask.

  “What’s going on here?” One of the well-heeled guests rose from his chair. “What do you men want?”

  You idiot, I thought. Sit down and shut up.

  Too late. One of the two shorter bandits stepped forward, snatched a bottle of wine from the table, and clubbed the man with it. The woman beside him screamed as the outraged diner dropped back into his seat, clutching his head.

  “Didn’t you hear me?! I said nobody move!” the armed man cried, dark eyes wild behind the mask.

  The shorter bandit stepped around the gunman.

  “Your wallets, jewelry, watches, and money in this bag.” He tossed a red pillowcase at the woman. “Fill it now, lady! Before jefe decides to pop someone!”

  NINETEEN

  THE room was silent as the trembling woman stripped off her earrings and dropped them into the thief’s red pillowcase. Beside her, the less-than-brilliant diner who’d protested the invasion clutched a bloodstained napkin to his head.

  “Where’s the purse, lady?” the man with the pillowcase demanded.

  “It’s on the f-floor,” the woman said, her voice breaking.

  The thief placed his gloved fist against the side of her head and mock-punched her. “Yo, bitch, pick it up!”

  Silently sobbing, she lifted her Christian Dior clutch and dumped its contents into the cloth sack.

  “The purse, too.”

  With a sniff, she released the Dior into the sack.

  Oh, God. My mouth was dry, my skin clammy. The shock of the robbery was making everything move in slow motion. Stay calm, Clare. Hold it together.

  Quinn once told me the best thing I could do in a situation like this was to stay cool and give the robbers what they wanted. “No money or piece of jewelry is more valuable than your life, sweetheart. Just give it up and get away . . .” I couldn’t agree more. I certainly wasn’t going to put up a fight for my stupid Fen bag or the money inside it.

  Waiting for my turn to be fleeced, I placed my hands on the table, in plain sight. A soft whimpering came from beside me. I glanced to my right and saw it was Neville Perry. The man looked ill, sweat was slick on his brow, and he was quivering like a mass of panna cotta.

  Wow, what do you know. Under pressure, the crazy, cleaver-wielding Prodigal Chef is no different from the rest of us.

  Then I heard another sound, one I couldn’t believe. On the other side of me, Rafe Chastain was softly chuckling. I glanced in his direction and saw the bemused smile on his well-lined face.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered with a glance my way. “This is the third time this year I’ve been robbed.”

  Okay, I thought, maybe all of us aren’t quivering masses of panna cotta.

  “Shut up, you!” the gunman cried, hearing Chastain’s little laugh. “Or you can eat this.” He gestured to the gun barrel.

  Chastain lifted his hands. “You’re the boss, kimosabe.”

  Thank goodness Chastain’s being smart. No stupid heroics.

  The red pillowcase was passed to the next dinner guest, the bleeding man. He dropped a Rolex and very nice leather wallet into it.

  While the tall man held the gun and the other gathered up the loot, the third robber held back, letting the others do the work. That’s when I noticed his back reflected in a wall mirror and saw the familiar dragon design on his jacket.

  A chill ran through me. These were the same guys I’d spotted loitering in front of the Taiwan Center on Northern Boulevard. I’d thought they were fellow diners. Now I wondered. Had the men been shadowing Roman and me, specifically? Or had they heard about this dinner from another source?

  I jumped when someone nudged my foot. It was Roman. I looked across the table at his panicked expression. He mouthed Breanne to me, and with a sick jolt I remembered the wedding rings.

  Oh, God. Oh, no. Roman had promised Breanne that he’d keep the rings until the wedding day, and guard them with his life. I could tell from the look on his face that those one-of-a-kind Nunzio rings were on him right now.

  I grimaced, watching the fleecing continue around th
e table. Finally, they got to Roman.

  “Give it up,” the thief snarled, holding the red pillowcase out.

  Roman pulled up his sleeve and fumbled with the clasp on his expensive watch. He dropped it into the sack, followed by his wallet and a polished titanium money clip stuffed with bills.

  The thief was ready to move along, but the man in the dragon jacket pointed directly at Roman. “He didn’t give it all up,” Dragon Man calmly said. “We need those rings.”

  Rings? How does this guy know Roman’s carrying rings?

  “Come on, man! Give ’em up,” the thief with the bag demanded.

  Roman held up his hands and wiggled his pinkies. “No rings,” he said. “And my navel isn’t pierced, either.” The man cuffed Roman with his free hand, and he nearly tumbled off his chair. “See here!” Roman cried. “That’s not sporting!”

  “Let me convince the little shithead,” the tall man with the gun said.

  “No, wait! Keep everybody covered,” Dragon Man commanded.

  But the gunman pushed past his partner and placed the barrel of the gun against Roman’s temple. Brio’s eyes widened as the armed man leaned down to speak right into his ear.

  “He’s says you got those rings. Give ’em up now, or I’ll pop you dead.”

  The armed man’s face was two feet away from mine, just across the narrow strip of white tablecloth. I saw the robber’s wild eyes under the ski mask, and I knew he meant business.

  Okay, Roman, I wanted to shout, you’ve done enough for Breanne. Give them what they want before they take it off your corpse!

  Roman’s lip quivered, but he shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  There was a scuffling movement to my right. I turned to find Neville Perry out of his chair. My God. The chef was attempting to bolt for the back door. But he wasn’t going to make it. The gunman was already shifting his weapon away from Roman’s head. He took aim at the chef’s back. Neville was about to be gunned down in cold blood.

  Not in front of me, you son of a bitch!

  In less than a second I’d chosen my weapon: the bowl of sambal belacan. I grabbed the blazing hot chili paste and threw it straight into the gunman’s mask.

  “Eat that, asshole!”

  The man screamed as liquid fire hit his eyes. He dropped his gun, clutched his face, and went down howling.

  “Aaaaaaaaah! I can’t see! I can’t see!”

  “Nice move, honey!” Rafe Chastain was already lunging at the robber holding the loot. I heard the solid smack of a right hook connecting. The bag went flying, and the punk went down. So did Chastain, whose tattooed arms began delivering nonstop rabbit punches.

  A floor lamp crashed to the carpet, sparked, and went black. With shouts and screams, the waiters bolted for the front door, knocking another lamp to the floor and plunging the room into semidarkness. Dragon Man tried to stop the horde, but without a weapon he couldn’t scare anyone.

  His screaming partner was still trying to rip the drenched ski mask off. But his movements only put more capsaicin in his eyes, nose, and mouth. He flailed around, grabbing his partner’s legs.

  “Help me, man! Help me!”

  Dragon Man was dragged to the floor, where he started groping through the shadows for the lost gun.

  Amid the chaos, I leaped over the top of the table and grabbed Roman’s collar. “Come on!”

  Chubby as he was, Roman still beat me out the front door. We saw the diners fleeing up the dark alley toward the brightly illuminated new town houses. I pulled Roman in the opposite direction, deeper into the gloom.

  “Where are we going?” he whined.

  “Those guys were after you, Roman, and I don’t think they’ll give up easily.”

  “Huh?”

  “They knew about Breanne’s rings!”

  “Oh, really, Clare? Think so?”

  “This is no time for sarcasm! Come on, duck.”

  I pulled Roman behind a ten-year-old Honda. Through its windows, we watched the house we’d just fled. One of the robbers burst through the front door a moment later, followed by Chef Chastain, who was yelling obscenities and waving the steel shaft of a broken lamp like he was back in the Australian bush, scaring dingoes away from his cameraman with a campsite tent pole (one of the Exotic Food Hunter’s better episodes).

  Both Chastain and his game ran down the alley and around the corner.

  Roman began to rise. “It’s all clear.”

  “Not yet.” I pulled him down again.

  Less than thirty seconds later, Dragon Man appeared at the door. I watched him tuck the gun into his belt and step cautiously into the alley.

  “I have to pee,” Roman whispered.

  I shushed him and watched Dragon Man take off in the opposite direction, following the noise of the fleeing dinner guests.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  We took to the side streets, which were deserted at this time of night. Even so, I imagined eyes watching us at every turn, feared an ambush any second. Dragon Man could be anywhere, which made me want to get out of Flushing ASAP.

  “Let’s head back to Northern Boulevard and hail a cab.”

  Roman snorted. “It’s easier to get a cab during a hailstorm in Manhattan than it is to find one in Flushing on a sunny afternoon. And it’s not the afternoon. It’s after ten.”

  “How much after?”

  “I don’t know, precisely. The brigands stole my Cartier Divan watch. And they took all my money, too, so I can’t even pay for a cab.”

  “I have plenty of cash in my—Oh, no! I left my bag back at the underground restaurant!”

  I felt a weight in the pocket of my tailored jacket and breathed a little easier. At least I still had the keys to the Blend.

  Roman frowned. “Poor Clare. A Fen original.”

  “I didn’t like it that much anyway. Fortunately, I took your suggestion and left my credit cards and IDs with Matt when he came by to pick up Breanne. But all the cash I had was in there, some of my favorite makeup, and my Metrocard, too.”

  “Don’t worry, I still have mine. We can take the subway, at least.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t give up those wedding rings, Roman. You almost died to protect them. And after all that crap on the train out here about not believing in sentimentality.”

  “Sentiment has nothing to do with it, sweetie. If I lost those rings, Breanne would never forgive me. In the world of New York style, a real suicide is preferable to career suicide.”

  Oh jeez. “Thank God I live on planet earth.”

  When we reached Northern Boulevard, we stuck to the shadows, of which there were plenty. Still convinced Dragon Man was stalking us, I kept checking our backs.

  Then I spied an odd-looking building set back from the wide boulevard. The brick structure resembled an old castle, complete with turrets at each of its corners. Though no one was in sight, light streamed through the first-floor windows and illuminated the long sidewalk to the entrance. When I got close enough to read the large block letters over the institutional green front door, I figured our troubles were over.

  QUEENS TASK FORCE NORTH

  “We’re saved, Roman! This is a police station!”

  I reached for the big man’s arm, but he pulled away. “I’m not going to the police!”

  “What! Why not? We just got robbed, assaulted, and one of the bad guys is still out there looking for us.”

  Roman dismissed my concern with a wave of his hand. “You’re paranoid, Clare. Those banditos are long gone by now.”

  “We can file a theft report. You want your watch back, don’t you?”

  Roman folded his arms. “Not that badly. If word ever got out that I went to the law, I’d never get invited to another underground restaurant, ever again!”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  Roman turned his back on me and walked away. I was so angry I was tempted to let him go it alone. But as I watched the st
ubborn food critic huff and puff up Northern, I realized he was oblivious to the danger and utterly incapable of taking care of himself. If anything happened to Roman, I’d feel terrible. So I followed him.

  By the time we reached Main Street, it was so late the place was nearly deserted. The click of my heels on the cracked concrete was the only sound as we passed darkened storefronts, shuttered magazine kiosks, and empty bus shelters. We were the only two people riding the long escalator down to the train. Except for the sleepy MTA clerk in the service booth, I saw no one in the subway station, either.

  Because Main Street was the end of the line, there was a train already idling on the tracks. We walked the length of the last car and entered the next to the last, both of which were empty. Breathless, we dropped into the plastic orange seats.

  “Men like Rafe Chastain may relish a life of adventure on the wild frontier,” Roman said, “but after a night like this, I can’t wait to get back to civilization.”

  The announcer’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Number 7 to Manhattan. This train is running express. Express train! First stop Junction Boulevard!”

  The doors closed and opened again—something that happens when a passenger tries to board the train at the last minute and gets hung up in the door instead.

  “Please let go of the doors in the rear of the train,” the conductor warned.

  The doors closed again (all the way this time) and the train rolled into the dark tunnel.

  “Wait a minute!” I said. “We’re at the rear of the train, aren’t we?”

  Roman saw my alarmed expression and turned pale. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t think our adventure is over yet.”

  I rose to my feet. The floor lurched under my heels, and I stumbled to the door at one end of the train car. Through its window I saw Dragon Man in the middle of the last car, walking down the aisle in our direction. His mask was off, and he appeared to be part-Hispanic, part-Asian, with angular features, a shaved head, and the hard, catlike gaze of a predator.