JACK
“Hm.” I tap my fingers back and forth over the bubble I’ve formed in my cheeks. “What do you think, Kinzi? Should I call her?” I’m pacing with my phone in both hands and Kinzi’s on the couch, tilting her head as if she knows what I’m saying. I huff and flop down next to her, grabbing my half-opened packet of pop-tarts and shoving 90% of it into my mouth.
“It’s just so unlike her to be late.” My stomach growls, and I pat it gently. “There, there,” I whisper, biting the inside of my cheek. This is stupid. I’m waiting here for Jess to come home like a kid forgotten to be picked up from daycare. (I should know, I have superior experience in that arena.) Busy parents of five tend to forget the youngest when he rarely speaks up for himself.
“I’ll be back,” I announce to Kinzi as I stand up, grabbing my jacket off the back of the barstool and slipping through the door in a hungry hurry. I flip through my phone to find a nearby restaurant. Hibachi sounds incredible, and it’s only a block away. While it might not be the safest part of town, it’s the safest bet to assure that my meat craze will be satiated.
What a night. The air is cold, the stars are as dull as they come in the smoggy city of LA, and the smell… Well, I could probably do without the nasty smell of downtown. But at least I’m moving in the direction of food. I turn to the next street over and continue walking until I see the sign—Hibachi Hibachi. Straightforward marketing.
The lady at the front greets me, and I tell her I’m a party of one. She smiles out of sympathy for my lame joke and seats me in a booth across from the main grilling tables. After I order a drink, I hear laughter that’s entirely too familiar. To avoid any unwanted interaction by looking directly at them, I pull out my phone and turn on the camera. It occurs to me midway through turning it that this might not be the best choice when I see the annoyed face of an old man sitting in the booth behind me. I mouth “sorry” and continue to turn the phone to the center tables. When I see him, my mouth drops, and I close my phone, quickly sliding out of the booth and switching to the other side to get a better look.
The assistant director of my division, Special Agent Nicolas Fine, is in the same restaurant as me, but that’s not why I’m freaking out. The entire table he’s sitting at is full of known Russian mafia members, and the one laughing next to him is none other than the leader of the whole gang, Nikolai Mikhailova. The waiter comes back as I’m gawking at them.
“You need more time?” He glances behind him when I don’t budge, still gobsmacked.
“Oh. Uh…” I lift the menu and see the words, Meat Mania. “I’ll have this!” I point to it, and he nods, taking my menu, then disappearing into the kitchen behind me. As I’m still staring, I realize that if I can see them, they can see me. So, I move back to the original side and scoot all the way into the corner. This will work.
Okay, so, there are two possibilities I'm able to think of that would lead my boss to be here in this part of town with that type of company. Either, he’s undercover… which, right? That’s pretty probable. Or, in the highly unlikely off-chance that my inkling is correct… he’s doing something he’s not supposed to, and I’ve caught him in the act.
Alright, Detective Beys, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There is no possible chance that I’m remotely correct about this. I mean, how could that make any sense? He’s been assigned to oversee the most prolific case of my young career (my first case, but who’s keeping track?). Why would he become a double agent? I’m really pondering this thought, and I’m surprised how focused I can be when I’m running on steam.
The only foreseeable issue in my current situation isn’t that I’m hiding at a booth while my boss chats it up with a very questionable company… I wish that was my biggest concern… The pressing problem unfolding before me is that there’s a large group of servers with chef hats carrying a wooden board, the side of my whole table. It’s covered entirely with mountains of assorted meats and long sparklers lighting up the top like a Christmas tree. They’re grinning from ear to ear, looking right at me and moving in my direction.
Much to my absolute stupidity, I’ve chosen some special ass dish on the menu, and they’re setting it down in front of me, singing a song in Japanese and clapping loudly. The entire restaurant is joining in now. I’m begging whatever powerful being exists beyond this realm to beam me up now because I’m basically a dead man if my boss spots me here. (That’s assuming he’s up to something shady.)
The whole restaurant has become invested now. It’s apparently a big commitment to engage in their environment instead of scrolling through Instagram while eating. They start chanting for me to blow the sparklers out, and everyone’s banging on the tables like we’re at Medieval Times. I bite the bullet and blow, feeling everyone’s eyes glued to me as I heave hot breaths over my smoking food.
When the last one is out, I get a round of applause. Yippie for me.
I bend my neck to the food, regretting every longing I’ve ever had for meat. “Why? Why did you do this to me?” I whisper to it, and it sizzles back. I glance out of the corner of my eye, only to see the group in question has gotten up, and they’re congregating outside the windows with cigars in hand. As they start to walk down the street in a huddle, I’m torn.
A bead of sweat drips down my face, and I look back to my food. “Follow them, or eat. Follow them, or eat….” I shove one bite into my mouth, my taste buds explode with more pleasure than I’ve ever experienced in one sitting. With a mouth full, I shake my head, waving over the server.
“Check, please.” I force through meat-stuffed cheeks.
“It’s not good?”
“No, it’s good— too good.” I gulp down my mouthful. “Please, have the kitchen enjoy it.”
He’s not understanding how it can be good, but I want to leave. I don’t have time to explain, so I reach in my pocket and pull out two one hundred dollar bills, tossing them on the table as I slide out of the booth.
“Thank you,” I call while waving to everyone as if I’m giving my last bow at a play and run out the door with a hanging bell that dings as I leave. I hear the group before I see them. They’re making their way down an even shadier part of town, and I can’t stop my feet from immediately reacting.
“Okay. Guess we’re doin’ this.” I huff, walking with too much purpose that if they turned and saw me, I’m sure I’d be shot. Calm down, Jack. Calm down. I steady my pace and flip open my phone to seem like I’m minding my own business. The second they turn the corner, I sprint to it, stopping just at the edge to look around.
“Welcome! Welcome! Glad to see you got away from the narcs for a night!” It’s a dead-end, and someone has opened a metal door leading to a warehouse that’s emitting the low hum of heavy bass from within.
They meander inside, but just before the door closes, I see my boss, kissing the cheeks of Carlito San Giovanni, whose smiling so wide I’d believe he won the lottery.
“Holy shit.” I breathe and leap back when I see them turn their heads.
Okay, now I can run. I sprint with every muscle I have, willing my hungry body to cooperate. I make it back to the restaurant, but I keep on going, flailing like a maniac— and I'm probably looking like it, running at marathon pace in my formal attire. When I make it back to the apartment building, I hurry inside, zip up the elevator, and run down the hall until I reach Jess’s.
After locking the door behind me, my phone begins to ring. Agent Fine.
“Hey, man.” I try to steady my breath.
“How’s the case going?”