Page 89 of The Newcomer
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BY NINE O’CLOCK, VIKKI HILLcould feel the walls of the Murmuring Surf’s efficiency closing in on her, so she walked down the beach to Gianni’s, the Italian joint Ava DeCurtis had recommended.
It was a small place, located at the end of a strip shopping center with a nail salon, a dry cleaner’s, and a liquor store. She opened the heavily carved wooden door and was welcomed with the scent of garlic, onions, and red sauce.
The hostess was busy, so Vikki looked around. It was a narrow room, fairly dark, with a wall of red leatherette booths facing the bar. The décor ran to heavily stuccoed walls with cheesy frescoes that she guessed were supposed to be Italian villages. The arched entrance to the crowded dining room was framed with a pair of gigantic fake olive trees draped with straw-wrapped Chianti bottles and clumps of green plastic grapes. The tables were topped with red-and-white-checked vinyl tablecloths and more Chianti bottles with candles stuck in them.
It was like a scene straight out ofLady and the Tramp,and she halfway expected to see a cocker spaniel and a mutt sharing a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.
The hostess, a rail-thin woman with fake eyelashes like dead spiders, approached. “Sorry, hon, we’re awful busy tonight. There’s a thirty-minute wait, unless you want to sit at the bar.”
“The bar’s fine,” Vikki told her.
She actually always preferred to eat at the bar when she was outof town, not because she was such a big drinker, but because it felt less awkward than sitting at a table for two or four and explaining to the servers that she’d be dining alone tonight. Again.
“Get you a drink?” The bartender was Hispanic and twenty-something.
“Yeah. Do you have a really dry red Merlot?”
“So dry you’ll spit dust,” he said. “Will you be dining with us tonight?” He offered her a menu, she took it, glanced at it, and nodded.
“I’ll have the pasta with bolognese and a house salad with vinaigrette dressing. No black olives, okay?”
“Never.”
He came back with the wine and a setting of flatware, and she was taking her first sip when the door opened. Joe DeCurtis stood there for a moment, looking around. He spotted her and walked over.
“Eating alone?”
She nodded.
“Me too. Mind if I join you?”
“Okay by me,” Vikki said.
The bartender was back. “Hey Joe, what’s shakin’?”
“Nothing much. What’s the special tonight?”
“Baked snapper. Just came off the boat this afternoon. Sautéed zucchini and tomatoes, and gnocchi. Sound good?”
“Perfect. And a glass of the Barolo I like in the meantime, okay?”
Vikki raised an eyebrow. “Barolo. I don’t know too many cops who know anything about wine. I’m impressed.”
“I wasn’t always a cop. I worked for a wine distributorship for a year or so, after college.”
“Good for you.”
The waiter brought his wine; he sniffed, tasted it, then nodded his approval. “I take it you didn’t hear from Wingfield today?”
“No.” She frowned. “I don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it either. Did you reach out to that detective back in New York?”
“Yeah. He said he’d show up at Wingfield’s place first thing in the morning and rattle his cage. Nothing else I can do, right?”
He sighed. “Yeah.”
