“Definitely do the tie.”
“What are they like?” he said, wrapping it around his collar and then fumbling with it. “Dammit, I think I need a mirror, I’m not used to doing this blind.”
“They seem fine. Here, let me help.” Lauryn reached out and helped him with his knot. “There, that’s perfect. Don’t be nervous,” she said with a grin. “They approached you, remember? Just be yourself. You got this. I’ll let them know you’ll be out in a minute.”
She left, closing the door behind her. Matt sat back down in his chair, knees feeling a little wobbly. He was a little nervous about the meeting with the producers, yes, because he really wanted this reality show, and he needed to make a good impression. But it was also the first time anyone had asked about PJ, and lying about it hadn’t been as easy as he thought it would be. Taking a deep breath, he ran a hand through his hair. He needed to get a hold of himself. He needed to relax and breathe and focus, and remind himself of what really mattered.
So PJ Wu was dead. Yes, it was a tragedy, and yes, Matt felt terrible. But it had been an accident, okay? Obviously Matt hadn’t meant to kill his friend. He’d lost his temper, and had punched the guy, and PJ had fallen, slammed his head into a rock, and died. It was awful and unfortunate, but it had happened, it was done, and nothing could or would bring the guy back to life.
But did that mean Matt’s whole life had to stop, too? Did that mean he was no longer entitled to the opportunities he’d worked so hard for? PJ hadn’t been close to his family, anyway. His parents were in California, and the rest of his family was in Hong Kong (or was it Taiwan? or Singapore? Matt couldn’t remember now). Like Lauryn had just pointed out, PJ hadn’t always been the most reliable employee. Nobody even seemed that surprised that he’d missed a couple of days of work without calling.
Besides, bad publicity for Matt would spell bad publicity for the restaurant. He had thirty-five employees and they all depended on him—would it be fair to them if Adobo went downhill?
He’d worked so hard for this, for this opportunity, for this restaurant. Two producers from the Fresh Network were here right now, waiting to speak to him, because of the things he’d accomplished. Because he was somebody important.
So no, there was no way in hell he was about to throw his whole life away over an accident. PJ’s death didn’t seem to bother his grandfather at all . . . so why should it bother Matt?
It doesn’t bother Grandpa because Grandpa is a psychopathic serial killer, the little voice in his head whispered.
Matt shook his head hard, forcing the voice to shut up. Stop with that shit, he told himself. That shit won’t help. PJ Wu was gone and there was nothing Matt could do about it. He didn’t know what the Chief had done with the body, and frankly, he had absolutely no desire to know. All he could do now was move forward, step up, and take what was rightfully his.
It was showtime.
Smoothing his hair one more time, Matt opened the door and stepped down. “Let’s roll,” he said under his breath. “You got this.”
* * *
The female Fresh Network producer was tiny, with wavy dark hair and a dimple on one cheek. Her name was Karen Burgundy, and she looked like a Mini-Me version of Halle Berry with her mocha skin and long-lashed brown eyes. If this was who they sent in to close deals, then Matt couldn’t imagine anybody ever saying no.
“The idea is to film a few days’ worth of footage, then go back and do the editing before we see what it looks like. Kind of like a trial run,” Karen was saying. The tip of her manicured forefinger touched the outer corner of her mouth briefly. Whether she had a habit of doing that, or whether it was a deliberate move on her part to get Matt to look at her lips—which were pouty and full and alluring as hell—he didn’t know.
Her skirt was short, red, and flared. Never breaking eye contact with him, she slowly uncrossed one lean leg, then crossed the other over it. It took effort for Matt to not look down.
“So obviously you know that the show will primarily focus on your food trucks, which are just like, super-popular right now.” Bernard Vitale was the other producer, and Matt guessed he was gay. He plucked an invisible speck of lint off his fitted cashmere sweater. “But there’ll still be a lot of filming here at the restaurant. Either way, we need to see you doing all the actual cooking, serving, and whatever else.”
“How many trucks are you featuring?” Matt finally managed to ask, prying his eyes away from Karen. “And how much screen time I do specifically get?”
“It really depends on the rest of your staff. The ones who are good on camera will get a fair chunk of screen time, but you’re our star. Expect us to shoot you at least one full day a week, likely a Saturday, when things are busiest.” Bernard consulted his iPad. “We were hoping to talk to your assistant head chef, PJ Wu. Is he in today?”
Matt blinked. “Uh, actually, no, he’s not.” He paused, wondering how much to say. “Actually, guys, I’m not sure he’ll be involved. There have been . . . some issues.”
“Oh?” Karen said, cocking her head to one side. “What kind of issues? You should know that that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Issues can often make for fabulous TV.”
Matt smiled. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. He’s, uh, not exactly the most reliable guy. Is it a deal breaker if he’s not part of the reality show?”
“Hello, it’s not a reality show, it’s unscripted television,” Bernard said, immediately annoyed. “I hate that term, reality show. We all know that anything on TV isn’t exactly reality. I mean, what is?”
“Don’t worry too much about it,” Karen said, giving Bernard a look. The fingernail was back at the corner of her mouth. “It’s you we want, one hundred percent. Whether PJ’s available or not.”
“But you guys did make a good pair on the Food Truck Challenge last fall.” Bernard looked disappointed. “You were like the Nazi, barking orders, and he was rolling his eyes behind your back making the funny one-liners. We’d have to replace him with someone you’d have a similar kind of chemistry with.”
“That would probably be anybody here,” Matt said with a chuckle. “I’m kind of a hard-ass.”
“Hard-asses are hot,” Bernard said. “Just look at Gordon Ramsay.”
“Exactly,” Karen said. “But the difference is, you’re actually good-looking. The camera just eats you up. Gordon’s not even remotely hot. I can see our female audience falling head over heels in love with you.”
“Not to mention gay men,” Bernard added.
Matt laughed. He knew they were flattering him, but he didn’t mind at all.
“And might I suggest a little tweaking when it comes to your look?” Bernard’s tone was delicate. “Don’t get me wrong, your hair is fabulous, but I’m betting if you let it grow out a little it would go curly. And curly hair is hot. I actually know someone here in Seattle who could cut it for you properly. I’ll give you his number.”
“Okay,” Matt said, self-consciously running a hand through his hair. “No problem.”
“And your clothes . . .” Bernard gave him the once-over, frowning slightly at Matt’s tie. “I mean, you obviously look great in a shirt and tie, but you’re very dressed up.”
“So what am I supposed to wear, a T-shirt?”
“Well . . .” Bernard said. There was a glint in his eyes that made Matt a little uneasy. “Do you work out?”
“Of course I do.”
“Mind if I ask you to take your shirt off?”
Matt blinked. “Right now? Are you serious?”
“Trust us,” Karen said with a smile.
Looking around the bar, which was empty save for the three of them, Matt got up off his bar stool with a sigh. He quickly removed his shirt and tie, and soon was wearing nothing on top but a black sleeveless undershirt.
“I told you,” Bernard said to Karen. “Look at those biceps.”
“Oh, I’m looking,” Karen said, her eyes roaming over every inch of Matt’s torso. “And so
will every other woman in America.”
“Now, this is your look,” Bernard said to Matt. “Sleeveless shirt, pair of jeans. You always show the guns. Always.”
Matt was flattered, if a little uncomfortable. “That’s fine. Can I put my shirt back on now?”
“If you insist,” Karen said with a wink. He felt his face flush.
“But remember, it’s a reality show, so while your looks matter, so does your personality.” Bernard’s tone was prissy but professional. “How you interact with your staff and the customers and the other food trucks owners will make all the difference. The key is to commit to whatever personality you decide to show. Like the whole hard-ass thing? With your looks? Hot,” he said. “Very hot.”
“I’m fine with all of it,” Matt said. “As long as we still focus on the food. And I still have a restaurant to run, don’t forget, so I’ll need to know what days we’re filming way in advance.”
“Of course we’ll focus on the food.” Bernard sounded insulted. “We’re the Fresh Network, hello. The food is always the focus, but the people are what sells it.”
“We’ll also need more background on you,” Karen said. “Personal stuff. On the Food Truck Challenge, they mentioned that your grandfather is the former chief of police of Seattle and I love the little cameo he gave at the end. He has such a commanding personality. Any chance he’d want to be involved with the show?”
Instantly, Matt tensed. “He’s a colorful guy, the Chief. But I highly doubt it.”
“The Chief, that’s right!” Karen said, clapping her hands together. “I love that. We were thinking he’d be awesome. He’s got a very authoritative presence, so alpha male.”
“Like you,” Bernard said. “But unlike you, he’d be more of a spice instead of the main dish. A little Chief here, a little Chief there.”
“He reminds me of someone . . .” Karen paused, thinking. “Oh, what’s his name, it’s right on the tip of my tongue . . .”
Bernard snapped his fingers. “Clint Eastwood. He’s practically a dead ringer, with that square jaw and that steely squint.”
“And the cigars,” Matt added. “He never goes anywhere without his cherry-flavored cigars.”
“Even better,” Karen said. “So do you think he’d be interested?”
Matt forced himself to smile, but it felt tight and unnatural. The Chief, a serial killer and now Fresh Network star? How much crazier could things get? “I really don’t think so,” he said. “It was a fluke that he made an appearance on the Food Truck Challenge at all. I’m not sure he’d want to do a regular thing.”
“We’d obviously pay him well,” Bernard said. “Worth a shot, right?”
“He definitely doesn’t need the money, but I’ll talk to him.”
“Bring him to dinner tonight,” Bernard said. “And I hear you have a girlfriend, right? Who’s a published author? Bring her, too.”
Caught off guard, Matt paused while he figured out what he wanted to say. “Yeah, I don’t know about that, guys. Sam . . . she’s not exactly the reality TV type. Sorry, I mean unscripted television,” he said when he saw the look on Bernard’s face. “And things aren’t exactly ideal with us right now.”
Karen nodded. Did she look pleased? Matt thought so.
“I understand, Matt, but romantic challenges can add a really great level of drama to the show if that’s something you’re both willing to be open about.” The producer leaned forward, revealing a hint of olive-skinned cleavage beneath her crisp white blouse. “We all want the show to be successful, don’t we? Just talk to her. Maybe she’d appreciate the publicity it would give her since she’s a writer. You never know, she might surprise you.”
“Fine, I’ll talk to her, too.” Matt looked at his watch. “The lunch rush is starting soon. Is there anything else? Or can it wait till dinner tonight?”
“It can wait,” Karen said. “But we want you to know, Matt, that the Fresh Network is really excited about having you on board. You’re going to be a big star.”
Matt couldn’t help but smile. The feeling he had right now was almost impossible to describe. Maybe it was because the producers had been kissing his ass for the past hour, but it felt like every bone in his body was tingling. He could almost hear the clicking of everything he’d ever wanted snapping right into place.
He really was going to be a star. And to think he’d actually considered turning himself in, and throwing it all away.
PJ Wu who?
16
There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with Edward’s nose, thank you very much.
His eyesight might not be as crisp as it used to be, and his hearing wasn’t as sharp, but his nose was still one hundred percent functional at eighty years old. Marisol had always said he had a nose like a wolfhound, and Edward had never disagreed. He was a hunter, and hunters were born with a naturally keen sense of smell.
The only downside was that he couldn’t shut it off. He could close his eyes or stick headphones over his ears, but his goddamned nose kept right on working. Which was a real drawback when the whole bus seemed to smell like Bengay lotion and Shalimar perfume.
The sign-up sheet for the day trip to Tulalip had been posted a week earlier, and it filled fast like it always did. The Sweetbay Village Retirement Residence had a full-time activities director, a perky young thing in her early thirties with double-Ds and a mop of curly black hair. Kyla Murray’s sole job was to keep the seniors amused several times a week with games of charades and Pictionary (for the old fogies who liked to stand), bingo and gin rummy (for those who didn’t), and round robin tennis (for the active folks). And once every two weeks, there was an organized day trip of some sort. When Edward had seen that it was for the big Indian casino north of Seattle, he’d signed up immediately. You had to be quick; the sign-up sheets for day trips were full within a few hours. Village residents liked getting out and about.
Edward enjoyed a good casino once in a while, but that wasn’t why he was going.
His seatmate on the bus was a fidgety old fart named Donald Martini, and it was all Edward could do not to break the man’s neck. Martini, reeking of Old Spice, had plopped himself down into the aisle seat and had nodded off within sixty seconds. By the time another minute passed, he’d elbowed Edward twice already. When the man’s bony elbow dug into his ribs a third time, Edward placed a hand on his seatmate’s skinny arm and spoke in a low voice.
“I’ll kill you, my friend.”
“What’s that, Edward?”
“I said try and be still, my friend.”
Martini looked instantly apologetic. “Sorry, Edward. I think I need my dosage adjusted. I’ve been a goddamned spaz all week.”
“Probably a good idea.”
“Sad about old Greg, huh?”
“Damned shame.” Edward spoke in his most agreeable voice. “Terrible accident. A reminder for all of us to be careful. We break too easily nowadays.”
The funeral for Greg Bonner had taken place the day before, and a bus had been hired by the Village to take anyone to the funeral home who wanted to pay their respects. Bonner had been found in the kitchen the morning after he died, bright and early, right where Edward had left him. An ambulance had been called, but not the police. It was clear he’d slipped and fallen. No reason to be alarmed.
After all, old folks died in old folks’ homes every day.
The bus hummed along and the vibrations weren’t unpleasant. The upbeat chatter that had peppered the air for the first twenty minutes of the bus ride was finally beginning to die down. All around him, gray heads began to loll as his fellow Villagers began to nod off, Donald Martini included.
Looking out the window, Edward watched the traffic go by, then finally closed his own eyes. He was looking forward to Tulalip. It had been thirty years or so since he’d last been there, and it had been fun.
The thing about Indian reservations is that they had an abundance of Indian girls. And Lord knew Edward had never minded Indian girls. He s
miled as he recalled the last time he’d been there. It was a fun memory.
AUGUST 1983
He’d spotted her the minute she’d come into the bar. Young with a plain face, the heavy makeup was the only reason she passed for pretty. Cheap clothes showed off her nubile body in all the right spots. The insolent look in her eyes masked her loneliness and need for love. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen.
She was perfect.
The bartender eyed her as she sidled up to the bar, but said nothing. She took a seat beside Edward and crossed her legs, her cutoff denim skirt riding up to show her lean, tanned thighs.
“Buy me a drink?” Sweet, husky voice. Dark eyes thickly lined with navy kohl looked up at him. Foundation a shade too light was caked over the blemishes on her forehead and chin, and her lips, coated with a frosty pink lipstick, parted to reveal even, pearly teeth.
“Sure,” Edward said. “What’ll you have?”
“Shot of Jameson,” she said to the bartender.
The man nodded, poured, then placed the shot glass on the counter between them. She tossed it back like a pro. Edward watched carefully for her reaction, but there wasn’t one. No grimacing, gagging, or coughing. A solid drinker at fifteen. Indian girls. It seemed to be in their DNA.
“Another?” he said, and she nodded. The bartender reappeared and the act was repeated.
She couldn’t have been much taller than five two. Maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. Chipped glitter nail polish on tiny fingers. She had pretty little hands. Four earrings in her right ear, three in her left.
“What’s your name?” she said.
“Ed.”
“I’m Agatha.” Her finger brushed his forearm. “My friends call me Aggie. You can call me that if you want to.”
“Okay, Aggie.”
“So how come you’re here?” Dark eyes were now a tad glazed, whereas a moment ago they’d been clear. The whiskey had kicked in.
“Just passing through.”
“Going to Canada?”
“Yep.”
“Everybody’s always going to Canada. What’s so interesting about Canada?”