With a Twist (35 page)

“I want your
story next week.”

Quinn stared at Mason, who’d called him into his office the second Quinn hit the newsroom. Quinn assumed he was in for another pathetic admonishment about how little time he’d been spending at the office tending to his “light” editorial duties.

Quinn sat down this time, casually putting his feet up on Clement’s desk as he tilted back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Kinda cutting off your nose to spite your face, wanting an article that isn’t quite done, isn’t it?”

“I want it. I’ve seen pieces of legislation move faster than this.”

“Read my lips: it’s not done.”

“Could you get your feet off my desk?” Mason asked, pursing his lips distastefully.

“Insubordination, huh?” Quinn swung his legs off the desk. “Better?”

“I’ve had enough of your bullshit, O’Brien.”

“Funny you should say that, because I’ve had enough of yours. I quit.”

Clement laughed curtly. “Pardon?”

“I quit—you know, as in ‘You can go fuck yourself, I’m out the door?’ Would I like my piece to run in the paper that made me what I am? Hell yeah. But you’re turning the
Sent
into a piece of shit. Besides, I know you: you’ll hack my article to shreds. Why? (A) Because you can’t edit worth a damn, (B) because you don’t want to make waves with the mayor’s office, and (C) because it’s your pathetic way of trying to remind me who’s boss around here. I’ve already talked to the
Standard
: they want me, and they’re willing to wait to run the article until it’s good and ready. I love it here. Correction: loved it here. But if I can’t do my job, there’s no point in staying.”

Clement sighed, looking at Quinn as if he were an idiot. “I never said you couldn’t do your job. I just said you’d be reporting on a much smaller scale because of taking over Rogan’s position.”

Quinn snorted loudly in disbelief. “I’m not taking over the job you fired my friend from! Are you serious? Why do you think I haven’t given a shit about being around the office? I just told you that so you’d get off my ass about the article.” He stood up, stretching. “Guess I’ll be hitting the road.”

“Not alone.” Clement picked up the phone. “I’m calling one of the guards at the front desk to come upstairs and watch you as you box up your things to make sure you don’t steal anything that’s
Sent
property. And then he’s going to escort you out of the building.”

“Wow. I wonder what will happen if I try to sneak a stapler past him. Will he shoot me?”

Clement ignored him. “Put your ID tag down on the desk, please.”

Quinn pulled out his building ID from the back pocket of his jeans and slapped it down on Clement’s desk with a big grin on his face.
“Here ya go, my man. Have a good one.”

“What the fuck?
You couldn’t tell us you were planning this?!”

Kenny Durham looked so distraught as Quinn threw his crap into a box that Quinn was tempted to go over to photo and beg a few Valium for his friend off Darby. He felt bad that he hadn’t said a word about his defection to his friends, but the
Sent
was a helluva lot like the Wild Hart when it came to gossip: it traveled faster than a Japanese bullet train.

“Of course I couldn’t tell you. Within a day it would have been all over the newsroom. Plus I didn’t want to depress you. Or freak you out.”

“Oh, and I’m not depressed and freaked out now?” Durham shook his head despondently. “Oh, man, you so can’t go. You know what it’s going to be like around here without you?”

“No one’s making you stay. Find a job at another paper and tell Kangaroo Jack to shove it up his ass.”

“There’s not a huge need for crossword puzzle writers, Quinn. All the papers already have one.”

“You’ll be fine,” said Quinn as he continued mindlessly chucking his stuff into a box: photos, his dictionary, old press clippings, and his thesaurus. “You’ve got Rodriguez. You’ve got Cindy. And we’ll still be hanging at the pub.”

“Yeah right.” Durham looked forlorn. “But I bet you’re gonna start hanging at Tico’s Grill with the rest of the
Standard
guys.”

“Maybe a few nights a week. But the rest of the time I’ll be at the Hart—if I’m not working.” Actually, hanging with his new coworkers off-hours hadn’t crossed his mind. But now that Durham mentioned it, it would probably be a smart thing to do, especially since he already knew and liked a couple of guys over there.

Quinn glanced at the bone-thin, milk-pale guard named Tom, who was busy watching CNN on one of the myriad TVs hanging from the newsroom ceiling. He didn’t give a rat’s ass what Quinn packed and what he didn’t. Quinn held up a stapler. “Should I take this?” he asked Durham, who shrugged.

“Tom, should I take this?”

“Do you need it?”

Quinn turned the stapler over in his hands. “No.” He tossed it in the box anyway.

“Cindy is gonna freak when she gets in and hears you quit, pal,” said Durham.

“No she won’t. She’ll be envious.”

“Probably,” Durham said glumly. “So when do you start at the
Standard
?”

“Tomorrow.” Quinn grinned. “And you know what?
I can’t goddamn wait.”

Talk about—what
was the word?—synchronicity. Here Natalie had realized she’d been lax in her search for a job managing a restaurant, and voilà! There was an ad in the paper looking for a restaurant manager for a medium-sized French restaurant. A simple phone call, and she was on her way to an interview.

She’d actually heard of the restaurant before: Le Bristol. She’d called Anthony to see if he knew anything about the chef. He told her the head chef, who was also the owner, was immensely talented, but at one time, he’d been a bit of a bad boy: womanizing, a heroin addict. “The Keith Richards of chefs,” was how Anthony described him. “But he’s clean now,” he assured her.

Natalie entered the empty restaurant, and as she had twice before, she sat down at an empty table. She was surprised to realize that she liked empty restaurants. They were so peaceful, not a hint of the hustle and bustle and buzz of conversation to come. The calm before the storm.

The chef emerged from the kitchen right on time. He was tall and thin with a thick mane of gray hair, wearing cowboy boots, faded jeans, and a plain white T-shirt. A cigarette dangled sensuously from between his lips.

Natalie went to stand, but he waved her down. “Sit. I don’t do formal.”

He pulled out a chair. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“You smoke?”

“I used to.”

He held a hand out to her. “Rick Lemieux.”

“Natalie Bocuse.”

“Nice accent. Customers would love it. You got a résumé?”

Merde
. She had never thought of writing up an actual résumé. What an idiot.

“I thought I’d just tell you . . .”

“Go ahead.”

While Lemieux puffed away on his cigarette, blowing funnels of smoke up to the ceiling, Natalie recited her short but sweet résumé.

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

Natalie was surprised by the question. “No.”

“Good. Because I fuckin’ hate vegetarians. You ever eat pig cheek? Entrails?”

Natalie thought for a moment. “No, but I love sweet-breads.”

“Are you willing to try new things?”

“Yes, of course.”

He tilted back in his chair. “Who’s your favorite band?”

Natalie was confused. “Pardon?”

“Favorite band. You dig the Ramones?”

“I don’t know them.”

“Hmm. Not good.” He snuffed out his cigarette. “If you were stranded on a desert island, what’s the one CD you’d bring with you?”

What does this have to do with food?
she wanted to ask. She thought hard, trying to come up with something fast.

“The Beatles’
White Album
,” she offered tentatively.

Lemieux looked at her with begrudging respect. “I’ll take that.” He lit another cigarette. “You’re on death row. What would your final meal be?”

Anthony must have been wrong. Lemieux was obviously still on drugs. Again she felt like she had no time to think. “Mmm. rabbit pâté to start . . . then, for the main course . . . roast quail with a simple asparagus mold as the legume . . . and for dessert, clafouti à la liqueur.”

“You’re hired.”

Natalie blinked. “What?”

“You’re the new manager. You’re obviously smart, you know French food, and you’ve got some management experience. You might be in over your head at first, but in my opinion, that’s the only way people learn. It can get nuts in here, so I might need you to seat people sometimes, too. When can you start?”

Natalie’s head was spinning. “Uh . . . I need to give my current job at least one week’s notice so they can find a replacement.”

“Sounds good. Call me during the week if you run into any trouble with that. Otherwise, I’ll see you next Wednesday. And pick up the Ramones’ first CD.
It’ll change your life.”

“I’m so sorry.
Don’t hate me.”

That night at work when she gave the O’Briens her notice, Natalie unexpectedly found herself weeping. Here she’d finally gotten what she wanted on the employment front, but instead of feeling happy, she felt sad and guilty.

She hung her head, not wanting to look at them as they sat on either side of her at the kitchen table. Mrs. O’Brien gently lifted her chin with an index finger and looked into her eyes.

“Don’t be daft. Do you think we thought you’d stay here forever? I’m just worried that it’s Quinn driving you out, even though you’ll deny it to high heaven.”

“I swear it isn’t. Managing is what I’ve wanted to do for a long time, but I got very lazy looking for a job because I love working here.”

Mrs. O’Brien brushed her tears away. “We wish you all the luck in the world, darlin’.”

“He wants me to start in a week. But if you can’t find someone by then, I’m sure I can stay on a bit longer. He told me to call him if that’s the case.”

“I think we’ll be able to. A friend of Maggie’s just lost her job and needs something fast. We’ll hire her.”

“That’s good.”

Natalie actually felt wounded by the rapidity with which the O’Briens were sure they could replace her, which was ridiculous. What was she expecting them to tell her? That she was irreplaceable?

“Should I throw you a little going-away party, love?”

“No, please,” Natalie said quickly—maybe too quickly. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful for all you’ve done for me. I’m just not comfortable with it.” With another party Quinn would no doubt miss.

“That’s perfectly fine,” Mrs. O’Brien assured her.

Mr. O’Brien shook his head sadly. “Liam gone, and now you leaving . . . it just won’t be the same around here.”

Natalie was touched.

“You’ll come back and visit, won’t you?” he continued hopefully.

“Don’t pressure her,” Mrs. O’Brien chided. “Especially since I’m sure that stupid son of ours is the last thing she wants to see.”

“Of course I’ll visit,” Natalie assured him. She never thought she’d feel this way, but she was actually going to miss the lunatic contingent at the bar. And Quinn’s friends. And the firefighters. All felt like family now.

“You look tired,” Natalie said. “I’ll go now.” She kissed them both on the cheek. “Thank you again for all you’ve done for me.”

“And thank you for trying to make our son happy. I’m just sorry he’s too stupid to realize what he’s lost.”

Natalie fought the tears welling up. “Me, too, Mrs. O’Brien. Believe me.”

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