Surf and Turf still looks classier than the folks at Rudy Tootie's Root Beer.
I think I'm thinking about this stuff because I'm nervous, standing up front near the bar, waiting for Ceepak, waiting for the chief-my new boss.
My boss. I'm getting The Job.
“Hey, Danny.” It's Olivia, dressed in black pants and a white blouse, looking classy, carrying a black-and-gold wire basket of crackers. “What're you doing here?”
Morgan's is not where my buds and I typically hang. We're more the Sand Bar types, a bayside beer joint more famous for its party deck than its food. In fact, Olivia usually joins us over there when her shift ends here.
“I'm meeting Ceepak,” I say. “And Chief Baines.”
“Wow. The Job?”
“Yeah. Think so.”
“Way to go, Danny Boy.”
She kisses me on the cheek and hustles off, carrying that basket of cellophane-wrapped crackers to its final destination. They've got Waverly Wafers at Morgan's, not just saltines. Like I said, the place is classy.
“Danny?”
It's Ceepak. He wears a white shirt, gray slacks, and navy blue blazer. He looks like someone who might wave a wand over you at the airport.
“Hey.”
“The chief called. Said he might be running a little late.”
“Should we wait at the bar?”
Ceepak shakes his head.
I get it. You really don't want to be sitting at the bar, knocking back a few cold ones when the chief of police strolls in to offer you a fulltime job on the force.
“Let's see if we can be seated at our table,” Ceepak suggests.
“Hi, guys.”
It's the hostess.
“Just two?”
“No,” says Ceepak. “We'll be three altogether.”
“Oh. Well, we can only seat complete parties.”
“Of course. We'll wait over here.” Ceepak moves to this leatherette bench near the front door. Rules are rules. “Chief Baines should be along soon,” he says to the hostess. “He's running a little late.”
“Oh. You're with the Baines party?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Mr. Baines made a reservation.”
“Different set of rules?” Ceepak asks.
“Whole different rule book.” She grabs a stack of menus. She's pretty and more like Ceepak's age. I think she irons her blouse, too. And-she's wearing a black skirt with black stockings. Very unbeachy. But definitely classy.
“Follow me.”
“With pleasure, ma'am,” Ceepak says.
Is he flirting? I believe he is. He's certainly smiling. His dimples kick in like crazy and his eyes most definitely twinkle.
The hostess looks at Ceepak over her shoulder, hugs that stack of menus closer to her chest. She dimples back at him.
Okay. This could get interesting.
CHAPTER TEN
I'm Rita,” she says after we sit down, taking the cardboard Reserved sign off our table. “I'll be your server tonight.”
“I thought you were the hostess,” Ceepak says. I'm wondering if he'll march back up front if Rita proves to be a hostess impersonator and, therefore, not properly authorized to seat us at this table.
“I am. I mean, I was. I was covering for Norma.”
She gestures toward the front where I see a little old lady in a ruffled white blouse and ankle-length black skirt, her bluish hair sculpted into a stiff bubble. She leans against the sign that says “Please Wait For Hostess To Seat You,” trying not to knock it over. When Norma's shuffling people to tables, I bet you do indeed wait a while to be seated.
“Norma had to powder her nose,” Rita whispers.
“I see. Nice of you to cover for her.”
Rita places menus in front of us.
“I do my best,” she says.
“It's all any of us ever
Rita stops. Not only do we not get the whole Welcome-to-Morgan's routine, I think Ceepak just made her forget tonight's catch of the day.
“Would you like some water?” she asks, going with the part of the script easiest to memorize.
“Water would be wonderful.”
I figure Rita is thirty, maybe thirty-five. I know Ceepak is thirty-four. Rita has a big swoosh of blond hair that's too long to be in style, looks more like that Farrah Fawcett poster from the ’70s, the one they still sell on the boardwalk. Her eyes tell me she's probably somebody's mom because they look tired, maybe even sad. I figure her kid is a teenager. I remember my mom's eyes when my brother and I were teenagers-she looked like we never let her sleep. I also figure Rita is a single mom. Maybe it's the way she looks when Ceepak is polite, like maybe her first guy wasn't so nice.
“Would either of you gentlemen like a cocktail?” she asks.
“No, thank you,” I say.
“Not right now,” says Ceepak. “Maybe later?”
The way he says it? I swear it sounds like he's asking Rita out on a date.
“Sorry I'm late.” It's Chief Baines. “I had to meet with the mayor.” He yanks out his chair, sits down.
“Would you care for some water, sir?” Rita asks.
“Sure. Put it in my Scotch.” The chief winks at Rita. “You guys order drinks?”
“Just water,” I say, letting him know what a good boy I am. Our host crinkles his brow.
“You sure you don't want a beer, Danny? I was going to propose a toast.”
“A beer would be good,” Ceepak says.
Okay. Twist my arm.
“Sure. I'll have a Bud.”
We clink glasses, do our toast, and the chief offers me a full-time job starting Tuesday, the day after Labor Day.
“Of course, we'll want you to take some classes at the community college and some training seminars offered by the state police.”
I nod and act like I was already planning on signing up for Criminology 101 this fall even if I went back to busing tables or working at Wal-Mart or that telemarketing gig with the mortgage broker.
Next, Baines tells me Ceepak has requested that he and I partner up.
“You're lucky. An experienced officer like Ceepak can teach you a lot.” Baines tilts his glass in his direction.
“He already has.”
And I mean it.
Now it's time to order. Ceepak and the chief go with Morgan's world-famous cheese-covered concoction of
