Cleo Coyle - Espresso Shot

“Yeah, Mike. I think so. Otherwise, I’m relying on you to bail me out.”

“Bail you out?” Mike laughed. “With what? Since I lent you my checkbook to furnish my apartment, I’m broke.”

“Sorry, buddy, but a girl can eat only so many ‘picnics’ on a bare living room floor before it gets old-not to mention cold.”

“Honeymoon’s over, huh?”

“Not if you consider cuddling up on a new sofa romantic.”

“I do. What’s more, Cosi, I expect to see you on that very sofa tonight. When are you coming over?”

“I’ll get back to you, Quinn. I’m on the job!”

I closed the phone on Mike’s sputtering (I was still a little pissed at him for getting me into this) and left Bree’s office.

Roman was still at Terri’s desk.

“Okay,” I told him, “tonight’s more important than ever.”

“You mean the underground restaurant?”

“I’m going with you to Flushing, and I’m going to interview Neville Perry, try to press a few of his buttons. You can be a witness to any threats he makes or confessions of violent intentions toward Breanne. Whatever we hear, we’ll both convey to her. Then maybe she’ll finally press charges, and we can get a police interrogation, maybe even a warrant to search his residence. What do you think?”

“Sounds like a plan, Shirley Holmes.” Roman’s impish eyes danced. “It seems I really am going to be your Dr. Watson-your big, gay, epicurean Watson.”

“Right.”

“But, listen, honey, before you start solving crimes again…” Roman tapped his watch. “You’d better get that coffee made.”

Damn. The coffee…

I took off down the hall. On the way to the break room, I rang Matt and gave him the update on the cleaver, quietly warning him to keep Breanne out of public places.

“Talk her into eating takeout at her place tonight, okay? And for heaven’s sake, use a private car service. Don’t walk anywhere. Between that SUV last Friday and the look-alike shooting last night, the last place that woman should be is on a New York sidewalk.”

“You believe me now, Clare, don’t you?” Matt asked.

“I believe Breanne has at least one serious enemy. Whether or not they’re serious enough to commit murder, the jury’s still out.”

I met Roman at precisely seven thirty on the Times Square platform of the Number 7 line. We grabbed the last two seats aboard the first car, and the train took off, rumbling toward the East River and the borough of Queens.

On subway lines that ran through the touristy parts of Manhattan, laughter and conversation were common. On this line, at this hour, the quiet weariness was palpable, like an oppressive fog. The riders around us were recent immigrants, their tired eyes scanning foreign-language newspapers, staring into space, or closed altogether, grabbing a few minutes’ peace before tackling a second job or the next chore on life’s endless list.

Roman Brio failed to notice. His demeanor was giddy, anticipating a magical night in gastronomy land. “These underground restaurants provide quite a thrill. A few have been disappointing, but most are full of delights.”

I nodded silently. At the moment, I felt more simpatico with the other passengers. Matt’s wedding was four days away. I’d already worked hard on the advance prep, but there was still more to be done. I certainly didn’t want to be schlepping out to Flushing to talk to a disgruntled chef who could very well have the bride-to-be in his crosshairs.

Our train made two more stops under Manhattan ’s avenues, then it rolled beneath the East River, emerging minutes later out of its subterranean tunnel like a giant steel snake. We ascended four stories to a wide-ranging system of elevated track and sped farther into the low-rise borough, leaving Manhattan’s glittering skyscrapers far behind.

Roman leaned close. “We’ve slipped the bonds of civilization and plunged into the untamed frontier of the metropolis. The culinary adventure begins!”

“We’re on our way to Flushing, Roman. Not Calcutta. Or are you testing the opening line of your next column?”

“I’m simply making an observation. To most residents of Manhattan, Queens is an undiscovered country. Sure, they come here to use the airports, but that’s it.”

“Not so true anymore.” (Having employed part-time workers who didn’t have Roman’s bank account, I knew Astoria and Long Island City were getting hotter by the year.) “Even young white-collar professionals are having trouble affording Manhattan rents. Queens is a close alternative.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“No supposing about it.” I checked my watch. “Listen, we have a good forty-minute ride in front of us. Why don’t you fill me in on this Chef Perry feud with Breanne. How personal is it, anyway? Do they have any kind of history?”

“No history. Those two only met in passing-parties, openings, that sort of thing.”

“Then the Trend exposé on Perry’s restaurant started it?”

“I told Breanne not to bother, that Perry would sink under his own substandard practices. But Bree has a mind of her own on such things.” Roman shrugged. “You know the story, right?”

“Only broad strokes; I need details.”

As I gazed through the scuffed Plexiglas windows at passing shops, churches, and row houses, Roman explained how Breanne sent a bright, young Latino writer to work undercover in Chef Perry’s popular new eatery in Tribeca (the chic tri angular shaped area below Ca nal Street, hence the name). Apparently, the writer took extensive notes and hundreds of secret photos of what really went on in Perry’s kitchen, including the use of expired meat and dairy products as well as frozen pre-prepared seafood (not unusual for some restaurants but blasphemy for a chef who loudly professed his brilliance on his short-lived reality television show and later in the press).

“And let’s not forget the frantic preplanned hiding of expired foodstuffs on days the health inspector came calling.” Roman sighed. “It’s an ugly thing, what Chef Perry did. Sophisticated diners expect the freshest and finest when they hand over Benjamins for what’s supposed to be gourmet cuisine, not garbage that’s past its prime. It’s a violation of trust. And it gets worse.”

“What could be worse than serving expired product?”

“Tip pooling.”

“No.”

Tip pooling was frowned upon in the restaurant biz. Typically a waiter kept all of his or her own tips. In a restaurant that pooled, the waitstaff was forced to place all gratuities into a common kitty to be divided at the end of the day.

“It stinks,” I said, “but technically it’s not illegal.”

“You’re correct. It’s not, as long as the owner doesn’t take a cut. But Chef Perry did take a cut. A big one.”

“Wow. The man really is an idiot.”

“The whole matter ended up before a Department of Labor arbitration board.” Roman shook his head. “It was a moot point by then. The New York City Health Department had already shut down his restaurant for a slew of violations, all stemming from Breanne’s exposé, which embarrassed the heck out of them. The place never reopened.”

“Chef Perry was the owner, wasn’t he? Between the start-up costs and the annual lease, he must have lost a fortune.”

“Actually, it was his mother who lost the fortune. But Mrs. Perry is the queen of downtown real estate, so she can afford it. Anyway, she’s the one who got him the prime location for his restaurant, and her networking is what got her son on a network in the first place.”

“Real estate and reality television? I don’t get the connection.”