Chapter 4 - THE CAR IN THE ALLEY
My mother stood in the middle of the storage room doorway, looking at the mountain of cash in her hands as if it were made of hot coals.
“Mr. Kane... I can’t take this,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “This is—this is too much. The police—if David calls the police—”
Vincent let out a short, quiet breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
“Mrs. Carter,” he said, picking up his dark wool topcoat from the paper towel shelf and sliding his arms into the sleeves. “David Sterling is not going to call the police. Because if the police come to Sterling’s Bistro, they will ask why the payroll taxes for thirty-two employees haven't been filed with the State of Illinois since November.”
David Sterling, still sitting on the damp tile floor near the bread rack, let out a tiny, whimpering sound and covered his face with his hands.
“And if the city inspectors come,” Vincent added, turning to look down at Sterling, “they will ask why the rear emergency exit was chained shut from the inside to keep the dishwashers from taking smoke breaks.”
Vincent looked back at my mother.
“Take your daughter,” he said. “Take your money. Go home.”
My mother looked down at the bills, then looked at me sitting on the stainless-steel table. She wiped her eyes again, but this time she didn't look terrified anymore. She looked like someone who had been holding her breath underwater for eleven weeks and had finally broken through the surface.
“Thank you,” she whispered to Vincent. “Thank you, Mr. Kane.”
“Don't thank me, Mrs. Carter,” Vincent said, turning toward the kitchen door. “Thank the girl who knows how to count guards.”
Marcus lifted me down off the prep table. I landed on my red sneakers, smoothed down my hoodie, and walked over to my mother, grabbing the hem of her black pants.
We followed Vincent’s detail out through the kitchen, past the line cooks who were suddenly working three times faster than before, and out into the main dining room.
The patrons at the corner tables were still sitting in total silence, their forks halfway to their mouths, watching us walk out.
When we reached the front glass doors, the valet was standing outside in the light rain, looking confused as Marcus walked up to the bright yellow Porsche parked directly in the red fire zone out front.
Marcus opened the driver’s side door, got in, and adjusted the leather seat. The engine let out a loud, terrifying roar that rattled the windows of the bistro.
Vincent stopped on the sidewalk under the black canvas awning. Rain was dripping off the metal edge, making small splashes on his polished shoes.
He turned to look down at me.
“Rory,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Kane?”
“What are you going to eat for dinner tonight?”
I thought about it for a second. “Tacos,” I said. “With the extra cheese that costs fifty cents more.”
Vincent’s lip twitched again. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his silver fountain pen—the heavy one with the engraved initials on the cap—and held it out to me.
“Keep this,” he said.
I looked at the silver pen. It was shiny and heavy, and it smelled like expensive metal. “Why?”
“Because one day you’re going to be five,” Vincent said. “And when you write down what people owe you, I want you to use a pen that doesn't bleed through the paper.”
I took the pen carefully and tucked it into the front pocket of my red hoodie, right next to my purple crayon.
“Thank you, Mr. Kane.”
Vincent looked up at my mother, gave her a short, respectful nod, and stepped into the back seat of a black sedan that had pulled up to the curb behind the Porsche.
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The black sedan drove away into the Chicago rain, followed closely by the yellow Porsche with Marcus at the wheel.
My mother stood under the awning for a long time, holding my hand so tight it felt warm, watching the red taillights disappear down the avenue toward the river.
