I knew perfectly well where the restrooms were, thank you very much—right up front by the maître d’s stand, just as I remembered from my last visit. But I wanted a look behind the scenes, at the part of the restaurant where the mysterious man had entered yesterday.
The lighting grew dimmer as I moved towards the back, and the current crooner—not Sinatra this time, maybe Johnny Mathis or Perry Como—faded to a barely audible murmur. Something more modern, with more rhythm, picked up the beat as I turned into the hallway where the waiters came and went. To my left, I could hear the sounds of the kitchen through a swinging door—the clatter of pots and pans, the rapid-fire Spanish of the cooks, and the occasional burst of laughter, all accompanied by what sounded like Mexican rap.
Directly ahead was a hefty steel door with an exit sign above it, clearly the way out to the parking lot and dumpster. To the right was another door: solid and well-fitting, with the words Office and Private nailed to it at eye-level.
Or eye-level for me, anyway. Standing in front of it was one of the largest men I had ever seen, and the notice hit him roughly in the middle of the chest.
He was at least six-four, maybe taller, with shoulders that spanned most of the width of the hallway. He had no neck to speak of, just a massive head that sat directly on top of those shoulders like whoever made him had forgotten to include the connecting piece. I was pretty sure the bulge under his jacket meant he was wearing a gun, although honestly, I couldn’t care less. He could easily kill me with his bare hands if he chose. A gun was superfluous.
“Help you?” His voice was surprisingly high for someone his size. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it would sound perfectly normal coming out of a normal-sized man, and I only thought he sounded like Mickey Mouse because he looked like he ought to speak in a deep bass.
“Oh. Um…” I gave him my best confused-tourist look and tried to pretend that my heart wasn’t beating out of my chest. “Ladies’ room?”
“Front of the restaurant.” He jerked his head in the direction I’d come from. “By the front door.”
“Right.” I managed a smile. “Wrong direction, then. Sorry about that.”
He didn’t move, and I took a step back. I didn’t want to turn my back to him, at least not until I was out of reach of those long arms, but I also wanted to get away as fast as I could.
When he stayed where he was and I had back up ten feet, I swung around on my heel to head back the way I’d come. But somehow, it hadn’t occurred to me that as I’d backed away, I’d come closer and closer to the kitchen. The sounds from behind the swinging door had grown louder as I approached, yes, and they reached zenith just as I turned, but I hadn’t really processed what that meant. And that was why I walked right into one of the waiters, who was on his way out with a plate in each hand.
We slammed into each other, and the food he was carrying slipped out of his hands and crashed to the floor. Shrimp and butter-lemon sauce splashed my suede boots all the way to the ankles—good luck getting that out—and mushrooms splashed against my skirt and dropped to the floor.
“Merda!” a voice muttered, or maybe it was, “Mierda!” From behind me, the giant let out a high pitched giggle.
I stared at the carnage for a second before I raised my head, just to feel my jaw drop when I met the eyes of the man I had just assaulted.
Chapter Seven
“What—?” I managed, and that was as far as I got.
“Sorry, Signora.” There was absolutely no recognition on his face, although at least he got the honorific right. As he should, frankly.
I’m sure there was recognition on mine, although my back was to the man-mountain, so it didn’t really matter. Mendoza didn’t give me long to ponder it, anyway, before he ducked back through the swinging kitchen door. To fetch a mop and bucket, I assumed, and probably to re-submit the pasta orders, too, since there were two diners in the dining room right now whose dinner was decorating the floor at my feet.
I stared after him with my mouth open, something that could, luckily, be explained away by the fact that I was standing here dripping shrimp and mushrooms.
“Whatcha waiting for?” the giant wanted to know. When I gave him an incredulous look—what did he expect me to do, walk out of here like this?—he lifted both shovel-sized hands and made shoving motions. “Go on now. Shoo!”
Shoo? “Like this?!”
“You were going to the ladies’ room, weren’t you? Go on and clean yourself up.”
I stared at him for a second with my mouth open—appalling, how dare he?—but eventually I did the only thing I could do. I huffed. “Who’s going to pay for my boots, I’d like to know? The skirt will probably come clean—leather can be washed off—but I’m never getting the lemon sauce out of the suede.”
“Talk to Luigi,” the giant said, making those same shuffling motions with his hands. “Off you go.”
I put my hands on my hips. Squishy. Ugh. “Your boss will hear about this, you know.”
Something flickered his eyes, and I wanted to take a step back. It was only the knowledge that he’d probably enjoy it if I did, that made me stay where I was.
“You just be happy we’re not charging you for two extra dinners,” he told me. “Shoo, now.”
I shooed, finally. There was nothing else to do. Mendoza wasn’t likely to come out—not while I was standing here—and I needed to wipe down my skirt and do the best I could with the probably-ruined boots before the stains set even more than they had already.
Greg’s eyes widened when he saw me come out of the passageway to the kitchen. He made to get to his feet, but I waved him back down and made my way to the restrooms while the human colossus watched from the rear. Once there, I spent the next few minutes wiping myself down with paper towels, wet and dry, while my thoughts ran in circles.
So this was where Mendoza had been hiding since the last time I’d seen him.
