—Rick Rodgers interviewed by Kathleen Flinn
I arrived at Key Zest at eight, damp from the fastest shower on record. The Key Zest office sits above Preferred Properties real estate on Southard, more attic really, than office. Danielle, our magazine’s receptionist, looked at the clock and then at my overheated face—still red like a tomato the last time I checked in the mirror. She touched a finger to her glossy pink lips.
“I wouldn’t go in there,” she whispered, pointing at Wally’s office. “Not unless he calls for you.”
Through the blinds on Wally’s windowed wall, I could see the silhouettes of two figures, one at the desk, one in the chair beside the desk. “Just Off Duval?” I asked in a hushed voice.
She nodded and made a quick face. “Livid,” she whispered again.
“Shoot.” I crept past Wally’s half-opened door and slipped down the hall to my nook, which is more like a hallway aneurysm than an office. Leaving my door cracked open so I could eavesdrop, I turned on my computer and pretended to work. Not easy with the raised voices that began to carom down the short hall.
Wally’s voice came first, low and controlled. “I’m sorry you didn’t like the review. A new restaurant takes its chances. But you’ve got enough experience to know that already. We have to act like serious journalists or we won’t be taken seriously. And that means we call them as we taste them. We’re not designing advertising—we publish reviews.”
Then came another male voice, loud and furious. “If she’d let them know that she was there, the chef could have done something about—”
“Either the kitchen can cook or it can’t,” Wally cut in. “A critic’s presence at one of the tables in the front of the house shouldn’t make any difference at all.”
“If you don’t care about advertising revenue, that’s a fine business practice,” the second man said.
“If you wish to take out an ad, we will include whatever copy you choose. But the wording in our review is not up to you. The piece stands.”
Wow. He was going way out on a limb for me.
I heard the noise of a chair scraping on the tile floor and then the second man said: “I could appreciate you standing behind an experienced reviewer. But bleeding to death over a newcomer who doesn’t know pâté from potatoes? Pure foolishness.” He stomped the short length of the hallway and slammed out of the office.
I waited a few minutes to be sure he wouldn’t come back with more last words, then edged down the hall and stuck my head into Wally’s office.
“That went well,” he said, adding a lopsided grin. “Come on in.” He waved me in, then ran fingers through his short blond hair until it stood straight up. He had on the same yellow shirt with palm trees on it that Danielle and I were wearing—one of his sort-of-endearing eccentricities was insistence on a company uniform.
“I’m sorry I was late,” I said, brushing past the enormous faux palm tree that guarded the door to his office. “I was over at the harbor when you messaged me. I should have been here to help you out.”
Danielle rolled her chair down the hall from the reception desk and stopped in the doorway. “No amount of reinforcement from extra troops was going to change that man’s mind. He’s a bully, pure and simple,” she added.
“I should have gone easier on the descriptions,” I said. “The olive oil wasn’t really that close to rancid, just a little off. And we didn’t actually get sick. And it wasn’t fair for me to predict the restaurant would fail.”
“Diners don’t want reviews that are whitewashed,” Wally said, sliding his tortoiseshell glasses down his nose and peering over the top of them. “They are spending good money on this place and they deserve the truth. You have to get over this urge to be nice, and go ahead and say what needs to be said.”
“But you’re always telling me to smile when people come in,” said Danielle.
“You’re a receptionist, she’s a critic,” said Wally firmly. “Different job descriptions.” He crooked a smile, ran his fingers through his hair again, and pushed his glasses up to the top of his head. “Can I talk to you alone for a minute, Hayley?”
“Of course. Let me get something to write on.” As Danielle rolled back to her station, I trotted down the hall to my tiny workspace and grabbed a tablet and a pen from the desk, hoping he didn’t have more bad news. Was my trial employment period up? Had I flunked a test I didn’t know I was taking? I returned to Wally’s office and took the seat catty-corner to his, still warm from the irate restaurateur who’d sat there only minutes earlier.