The Big Kahuna (Fox and O'Hare #6)(60)

“The market is a little slow now,” my mother said, folding her reading glasses and sitting back in her chair. “But I think we can find a buyer.”

“Did you not hear what I said? We can’t sell the restaurant.”

“Why?”

“Because Dad wouldn’t have wanted us to. You know this. Salma knows this.”

“But I never wanted a restaurant. It was your father’s idea. What I wanted was a coin laundry. No employees, no big expense, no waking up at five in the morning.” She ticked off these items on the fingers of her left hand. It seemed to me she was falling back, almost with relief, into an old argument, and this time she would see it through. “But your father never listened to me. I don’t want the restaurant and I don’t want to see Baker going and coming. Every day, he’s going and coming like nothing happened. I want to sell. And your sister, too. She said she needs the money.”

“For heaven’s sake, we can’t sell. That would give Baker exactly what he’s been after all this time. He wanted Dad out of here and you’re letting him have his way. And what does Salma need the money for? Her practice is doing well.”

I saw that I had finally scored a point, because my mother was speechless for a minute. She put her reading glasses into a tortoiseshell case and slipped it into her purse. “So you want to keep the restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s going to run it?”

“Marty can. He pretty much does, already.”

“He’s not family.”

“So? It’s a job, and he’s good at it. This would only make it official.”

“No. He can’t do it alone. You want to do it?”

“But I have my own work, Mom.”

“So why do you want to keep the restaurant? Go make your music. Salma and I talked to the realtor on Wednesday and he—”

“You already talked to a realtor? Mom, will you please just wait? Let me think about it. I have just as much say in this decision as the two of you. And we have to wait for the probate to be closed, anyway. That’s going to take months.”

“We can shut down the restaurant until probate is closed.” And then, seeing my eyes widen with revolt, she said, “Okay. Fine. Think about it. Then we’ll talk to the realtor.”

It took all I had not to slam the door behind me as I left the office. The move to sell the restaurant had taken me by surprise, but it was the fact that my mother and sister had formed some kind of alliance behind my back that made it so devastating. Walking back through the restaurant toward the exit, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would look like under new owners. Would they keep the dappled mirror over the counter? Or the metal sign by the back door that said COCA-COLA: GOOD WITH FOOD? Would Rafi and Marty and Veronica still have jobs? Would Baker still start arguments over parking spaces? I didn’t like where any of this was leading. What I wanted more than anything, and this desire surprised me with its clarity, was for this place to stay exactly the same as it was when my father was alive.





Coleman




I was in the break room pouring myself a cup of coffee when Gorecki came in. It was a little after six in the morning, and I don’t think either of us was ready for the sergeant’s briefing, or even fully awake yet. He picked up a Dixie cup from the tall stack next to the sink and held it out to me like a beggar, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He was working on a college degree, in American history if I remember correctly, and this fact set him apart from the career deputies, and at times it even created some conflict, but I liked that he was kind of an outsider, like me. “How are you?” I asked as I filled his cup.

“Pretty good, actually. How about you?”

“Hanging in there,” I said, and took a sip of my coffee. It tasted bitter and did nothing for my mood. The night before, while Miles was in the shower, I had gone through his Instagram account and found, mixed in with the selfies, desert landscapes, and artsy compositions, a shirtless picture of Brandon. It had been taken after a basketball game at school, with Brandon looking straight at the camera, smiling, his arm reaching as if to touch the person taking the photo: Miles. I had a sense of what was happening, but not how to talk about it with my son, much less with his father. “A little worried about Miles.”

“His schoolwork, you mean? I thought you were helping him with that.”

“I am,” I said, catching myself. Gorecki waited for me to say more, but instead I asked about the sergeant. “How are things with Vasco?”

“He caught me reading a book during my shift the other day. Chewed me out.” He shook his head slowly. “You’d think reading was illegal, the way he was acting.”

“He’s worried about appearances. There’s a new article on Bowden.” I tilted my head to indicate the newspaper that lay at the other end of the counter. Bowden was an unemployed plumber with a long rap sheet that included petty theft, possession, and assault. He was being served with an arrest warrant for another drug charge when he fled through the back door of his house, leading deputies on a car chase across unpaved streets in Twentynine Palms, down Highway 62, on to a tire shop in Yucca Valley, where they finally caught up with him. The Los Angeles Times had dug up cell phone footage showing Bowden lying on his stomach, his face against the asphalt, and a deputy repeatedly punching him in the head.