I check all the job sites again, hoping something magically appears and then apply for waitress openings. There are lots of those. The high-end restaurants won't consider me, but the other places might. I jot down the addresses of a couple of dozen places. Then I head to Manhattan for the afternoon. My best hopes are to get hired by a couple of restaurant/bars where I can work and earn good tips. If that doesn't work, maybe I can file for unemployment.
Thankfully, at one restaurant, I am in luck. The owner, Diana, is in and she has been looking to hire someone. My interview goes well, although she is curious why someone like me wants to be a waitress. When I explain the truth, she says she'll hire me under two conditions: first, I have to give two weeks' notice before I quit; and second, I have to let her know my schedule for my other jobs, when I get them. That's certainly fair, so I agree. I'm hired me on the spot and have to report in at eleven in the morning for training. I visit a few more places with the hopes of finding an additional job, but come up empty-handed. It's about six when I head back to Brooklyn, stopping at the grocery to pick up some items before going home.
My apartment building is fairly quiet at this time of day, mostly because the action doesn't begin until later at night. I jog up the stairs and my key is already out as I approach the door.
I bolt the door behind me when I'm inside. As if the lock was a cue, my stomach growls loudly. I rush to the fridge to empty my load. It's not much, but will get me by. Then I turn on my makeshift stove to heat up some water for the Ramen noodles. When college was over, I figured the days of eating these were gone. Guess I was wrong.
After dinner, I check my messages. There's a response from the email regarding the bracelet saying he definitely wants it. He'll be available to meet me tomorrow night. That means I'll have to do it after work. That poses a problem. I don't want to walk around town, carrying a bracelet worth that much money. Wearing it isn't an option either. If someone were to see it, I'd get mugged in an instant. I get off at seven, so I can be back here afterward and meet him someplace. But there's nowhere to meet him around here. At least, nowhere safe.
As I see it, the only choice I have is for him to meet me downstairs. He can call when he gets here. As soon as he does, I can run down, and we can make the exchange. He left me a phone number in his message, so I decide to call him.
When I give him the details, he doesn't balk.
"My neighborhood isn't the safest," I add, "so it would be wise to bring a bodyguard or a really bulky friend, if you have one. I'm not exactly comfortable carrying the bracelet around, which is the reason I want you to meet me here."
"I'll be outside tomorrow at nine. Will that work?" he asks.
"Yes. Can you call when you get here?"
He agrees.
The next morning, I'm a bit anxious to begin my new job. When I arrive, the manager introduces me and everyone is very helpful. In no time, I pick up the best sellers on the menu, but it takes a little while to learn the program on the computer. The system seems antiquated, and in need of an update. My brain tells me there's a better way to do this, but I keep my mouth shut. That isn't my job description any longer. Waiting tables is.
I'm working with one of the waiters, a guy around my age named Eric Thompson, who's showing me the ropes and giving me great pointers. There's a lot more to remember than I anticipated. He's patient with my errors and reminds me somewhat of Vince.
"Your first job waiting tables, huh?"
"Yeah, and it's nerve-wracking. I'm afraid I'll spill something on the customer," I say.
"You will, eventually. It happens to everyone. When it does, do some major sucking up. And pray it happens to a guy and not a woman. They're always worse than men."
"Really?"
"Yeah. They hate to get their clothes messed up. Men don't love it, but aren't pussies about it."
The way he says it makes me laugh. I'm carrying a tray loaded with drinks, so I tell him to stop. "Watch me dump this on someone." I'm glancing at him and round a corner. Just as I spot another waiter coming toward me, I hear Eric's alarmed, "Careful!"
Only it's too late. The tray comes straight up onto my chest as six glasses of ice water and soft drinks spill down my front. I'm soaked through to my skin. I can either laugh or cry, so I choose to do the first. Eric looks on and then a huge burst of laughter roars out of the both of us.
"What the hell am I going to do?"
He's bent down, wiping up the mess. At least I didn't dump the drinks I'm holding on the other waiter.
"You're going to dry off and find something to change into while I refill this order. Come on." He grabs my dripping wet wrist and pulls me in the back. When he yells out what happened, one of the other girls says she has a shirt I can wear. My bra is so wet it's a sponge. I head to the bathroom to do my best in drying off. Then I put the shirt on and go find Eric.
"How can I help?"
"We're good. Follow me." The rest of the afternoon runs pretty well. At the end of my shift, Eric says in a couple more days I should be good to work on my own. This is good news, because I can use the tips.
The train takes forever and is unusually crowded that night. I'm stressed out by the time I get home, anxious about how everything will go. The first thing I do is take a quick shower to rinse off the stickiness that's coated my skin all afternoon. I wiped off as best I could, but there was still a residue left behind. The hot shower helps to relax me. As I'm drying off, I notice the bruises and how the purple is fading from my skin. The discoloration reminds me how lucky I am that's all I ended up with. Once I'm dressed, I'm glad my jeans and sweatshirt cover up all what's left of the bruises.
About a quarter before nine, I go to my closet, pull out the stuffed bear, and carefully undo the seam. I poke around in the white fluffy stuffing until I find the bracelet. Releasing the breath I was holding, I pull the thing out and inspect it, making sure all the remnants of stuffing are removed. It'd been inside the bear a long while. Then I wrap it in the velvet sleeve my mom kept it in and put it in an envelope, along with the appraisal papers. Right as I finish, my phone rings. It's him. I wish my apartment faced the street so I could look out and see him, but it doesn't.
"I'll be right down," I tell him. I throw on my coat, put the envelope in the pocket, and leave. I make quick time on the stairs and push my way out of the door to see a fancy black limo double-parked on the street. Standing next to my building is a man in a dark suit. He's much younger than I thought he'd be and much more attractive.
"Miss Renard?"
"Yes, are you Mr. Acosta?"
He smiles and his teeth gleam under the streetlight. "Yes, I am. You have something for me?"
"Only if you have something for me in return."
His deep chuckle makes me smile. "Would you mind very much if I see it?"
"Right here?" I look around and check our surroundings.
"It's fine, Miss Renard. You don't have to worry."
"Mr. Acosta, have you noticed where we are?" He must be crazy not to be alarmed.
"Miss Renard, I have … people that won't let any harm come to me. As I've said, it's fine."
"People?"
"You told me to bring a bodyguard."
"I don't see one."
"That doesn't mean one isn't here," he says.
Even though I'm leery, I slip my hand into the pocket and pull out the envelope. I open it so he can look inside. I also show him the papers.
"Very good. I know you don't trust me, so here is the certified check you requested. I'll let you look it over."
It's in an envelope and I don't want to pull it out, so I scan it through the opening to make sure it's legit. It seems to be in order.
"Are you satisfied? I can assure you it's good and if you have any problems with your bank, call this man." He scribbles a name down on the back of a card and hands it to me. "He's with the bank from where the check is drawn. He'll be happy to help you."
"Thank you." I hand him the envelope.
"Miss Renard, if you have any other jewelry you wish to dispose of, please call me directly. And might I suggest choosing another place to live?" With a slight dip of his head, he turns and walks to the waiting limo. A huge dude appears to open the door for him. He gets in and they drive off. When I go to head inside, someone grabs me from behind and drags me to the side of the building. As soon as I start to scream, a hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off my cry for help.
Chapter 8
Prescott
Joe Delvecchio never knew what or who nailed him. I waited until he made bail. When he exited the jail, I watched the little fucker prance around as though he didn't have a care in the world. Little did he know. Later that night, I gave him a broken nose and a few broken ribs. Figured what goes around …