Читать книгу In Violet's Wake - Robin Devereaux-Nelson - Страница 8

chapter 2

It was the kind of night Costa Pavlos’s mamma used to call a nychta tou diavolou—a devil’s night. For that matter, things had been off all day. The meat order from Detroit hadn’t arrived and he’d had to send Angelina down to the market in town and pay nearly double just to keep them flush for the weekend. Two of the waitresses had gotten into a fight in the ladies room and had to be sent home, and the Hobart had broken down again. He was going to have to spend Sunday afternoon taking the monster mixer apart, and if he couldn’t fix it this time, he was going to have to put out a bundle for a new one.

It was a night for dropped glasses, restless patrons, and emotional kitchen staff. So, Costa wasn’t surprised when the drunken guy came in around ten and started making a commotion. Marney, the hostess, was doing her best to handle the situation, but the guy towered over her. He was yick-yacking about his wife and waving his keys around. Then, Costa heard the guy start hollering about Costa fooling around with his wife. “What the hell?” the Greek muttered under his breath as he came from behind the bar, hurriedly glancing around the restaurant. That’s all Angelina had to hear—he’d be sleeping on the couch for eternity. Thankfully, most of the patrons had already headed out for the night.

“Where’s Pavlos!” Marshall was saying. He leaned over the hostess station and knocked the reservation book to the floor. Costa came up behind Marney and put a hand on her shoulder. “Take over the bar, sweetheart.” Costa stepped up to Marshall, who was weaving unsteadily on his feet. Up close he reeked of tequila. “What can I do for you, friend?” he asked quietly.

“You Pavlos?”

“Who wants to know?”

Marshall took a lurching step forward. “Violet’s husband, that’s who!” he hollered, taking a sloppy swing at the older man. Costa caught Marshall’s wrist in his meaty hand and jerked him closer. “Sure you want to do that, pal?” Costa said. He chuckled a little, taking in the guy’s preppy jacket and loafers. He was tall, all right, but not much heft to him. It was obvious he’d been drinking and that it didn’t agree with him. There was a sheen of sweat on the guy’s face, which was a bit pale and green.

“You bet!” Marshall said, spraying spittle on Costa’s face. Costa twisted Marshall’s wrist behind his back, spinning him around. “How ’bout we just sit down and talk about this like gentlemen, huh?” Marshall jerked out of Costa’s grip. He swung around fast, waving his long arms to keep his balance, and backed away. Costa shook his head. He walked toward Marshall with his palms out. “Look,” he said, “Fella—”

Marshall made a horrible crying sound and rushed forward, head down. He caught Costa in the belly. Costa skidded backward, air coming out of him in an OOF, his body shattering the side window. The last table of patrons nervously threw some money down on the bar and scurried toward the door. Marney flattened herself against the liquor rack, and the new dishwasher kid came out of the kitchen, his hands red and wet. “Need help, boss?” he hollered across the room.

Costa pulled himself up and eyed Marshall. Now this skinny guy was pissing him off. He looked at Marshall breathing hard, his excellently cut hair falling in his face. He was holding on to the hostess station to keep his balance. “Nope,” Costa said. “I got this.” He crooked a finger at Marshall. “That’s the way you want it?” he said. “Let’s go, sonny boy.”