Chapter 20 - Hey There, Samantha

Chapter 20: Chapter 20 - Hey There, Samantha

Marlowe’s smelled like garlic bread and burnt coffee, the same as it did every day.

The lunch rush was in full swing. Every booth along the window was packed. Construction workers in neon vests crowded the counter. A table of retirees argued about the Mets near the back. The bell over the kitchen pass kept dinging, and Hector the line cook kept shouting "Order up!" like the building was on fire.

Carrie Morton moved through it all on autopilot.

She smiled at the right times. She said "Enjoy!" and "Can I get you anything else?" in her bright, bubbly waitress voice. She tucked loose strands of red hair behind her ear when they fell into her face.

But her mind wasn’t in Marlowe’s.

It was still in that alley.

She kept seeing him. The tall guy from the bar, curled up on the wet pavement. Blood running from his mouth. Angus’s boot slamming into his stomach again and again, the sound it made like someone beating a rug.

She’d done this job maybe a dozen times now. Maybe more. She’d stopped counting because counting made it real. Lure them out. Get the phone. Get the passcode. Get out.

Sometimes Angus shoved a guy against a wall. Once, he’d broken someone’s nose when the guy swung first. But he’d never done that. He’d never kept going after the money was already gone.

She’d thought he was going to kill Jesse.

Carrie set a plate of eggs down in front of a man in a Yankees cap and barely heard him say thank you.

Was it because they’d only gotten two grand? Angus had been furious about that, cursing the whole walk back to the car. Or was it what Jesse had called him?

You cum-guzzling bastard.

Despite everything, the corner of her mouth twitched. Nobody talked to Angus Dent like that. Nobody who wanted to keep their teeth.

That was what had set him off. She was almost sure of it. Something in Angus’s face had changed when Jesse said it, something ugly and personal, and after that it hadn’t been about the money anymore.

She’d begged him to stop. She’d screamed it.

And when he finally did, when he’d stomped off down the street to wait in the car, she’d made an excuse about dropping her earring and run back into that alley.

She still didn’t fully know why she’d done it. She just knew she couldn’t leave him there.

She’d dragged him all the way to St. Nicholas. He’d been so heavy, all long arms and legs, his head lolling against her shoulder. She’d left him with the nurses and run before anyone could ask her name.

And now she had no idea if he’d lived or died.

She’d checked the news three times this morning. Nothing. No report of a man found dead in Astoria. No mugging victim in critical condition. Just silence.

Silence could mean anything.

On top of all that, there was the email.

She’d read it on the subway ride in, standing pressed between a guy eating a breakfast sandwich and a woman with a stroller.

Dear Ms. Morton, thank you for your time and your audition for the role of Detective Mara Quinn. While we were impressed by your work, we have decided to move in a different direction...

A different direction. They always said that. As if there was some secret map, and every direction on it led away from her.

She’d wanted that role so badly. A recurring part on a network crime drama. Real money. Enough to finally pay off Angus once and for all. Enough to stop.

No more nightly alleyway duties.

She’d let herself believe it, just a little. That was always the mistake.

"Excuse me. Miss? Excuse me!"

Carrie snapped back to reality.

A woman in a lavender blazer was glaring up at her from table four. In front of her sat a steaming plate of chicken parmesan.

"I ordered the Caesar salad," the woman said, very slowly and very loudly. "With grilled shrimp. And no croutons. I have a gluten allergy. Does this look like a salad to you?"

Carrie stared at the plate. A thick, breaded chicken cutlet, smothered in sauce and cheese, practically glowing with gluten.

Her face went hot.

"Oh my God. I’m so sorry, ma’am. I must have mixed up the tickets."

"You must have." The woman’s voice climbed. Heads at nearby tables turned. "I could have eaten that. Do you understand? I could have ended up in the hospital!"

"I understand. I’m so sorry. I’ll get that fixed right away."

"I want to speak to your manager."

Carrie’s stomach dropped. Tommy was in the back office. The last thing she needed was Tommy coming out here, putting his hand on her lower back the way he always did, telling the customer in his oily voice that he’d personally take care of it, and then making her stay late to "talk about it."

"Please, ma’am," Carrie said softly. "It was completely my mistake. I’ll have your salad out in five minutes, and your whole meal is on the house. Dessert too. Whatever you’d like."

The woman’s glare wavered. She looked at the plate, then at Carrie, then sniffed.

"Fine. Five minutes."

"Thank you."

Carrie grabbed the plate and hurried toward the kitchen with her face burning.

*****

The waiters’ station was a narrow nook between the kitchen and the walk-in freezer.

Carrie leaned against the counter and pressed both palms against her eyes.

"Okay," a voice said behind her. "What was that?"

Carrie lowered her hands.

Evie Navarro was leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed, a coffee pot dangling from one hand. Evie was small and round-faced, with box braids piled on top of her head and a nose ring she was technically supposed to take out for work and never did. She’d started at Marlowe’s the same week as Carrie. They’d been covering for each other ever since.

"What was what?" Carrie asked.

"Don’t do that. Chicken parm for a gluten allergy? Babe. You got table seven’s coffee wrong twice this morning." Evie set the coffee pot down. "You’ve been somewhere else all day. What’s going on?"

Carrie opened her mouth.

For one second she almost told her everything.

Then she closed it again.

"It’s nothing," she said. "I just didn’t get the part."

Evie’s face softened immediately. "The cop show?"

"Detective Mara Quinn." Carrie laughed, but it came out shaky. "They’re going in a different direction."

"Oh, Car. I’m sorry." Evie stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug that smelled like coffee and coconut hair oil. "Their loss. Seriously. You were going to be amazing in that. You practiced those lines with me for two weeks. I could do the interrogation scene in my sleep."

"You did do the interrogation scene in your sleep. You texted me lines at three in the morning."

"See? Dedication." Evie pulled back and held her by the shoulders. "You’re going to book something. I know you are. And when you’re famous, you’re going to remember the little people. Specifically me. You’re going to buy me a house."

Carrie smiled despite herself. "A whole house?"

"A small one. I’m not greedy."

Carrie laughed. A real one this time.

But Evie was watching her closely, and behind her smile, something didn’t sit right.

Carrie had been rejected before. Plenty of times. Evie had been there for most of them. Carrie usually cried for a couple of minutes in the bathroom, ate an entire slice of the chocolate cake they weren’t supposed to touch, ranted about casting directors, and then bounced right back like nothing had happened.

She’d never looked like this. Pale. Jumpy. Hands trembling when she thought nobody was looking.

This wasn’t about a TV show.

Evie opened her mouth to push, just a little, when the swinging door burst open.

Danny, the busboy, skidded in, almost knocking over the coffee pot.

"Carrie! There you are."

"What? If it’s the lady at table four, tell her the salad’s coming—"

"No, no, it’s not her." Danny caught his breath. "There’s a guy in the booth by the window. He asked for you."

Carrie blinked. "Asked for me?"

"By name. He said he only wants you to serve him." Danny shrugged. "I offered to get Jake, but he said no. He said he’ll wait for you."

Carrie and Evie looked at each other.

Nobody ever asked for a specific waitress at Marlowe’s. This wasn’t the kind of place where people had regulars. People came in, ate their club sandwiches, overtipped or undertipped, and forgot your face before they reached the door.

A slow, wicked grin spread across Evie’s face.

"Well, well, well." She nudged Carrie with her elbow. "Looks like somebody’s got an admirer."

"Shut up."

"A secret admirer. Who walks in off the street and requests you by name." Evie fanned herself dramatically. "It’s like a Hallmark movie. Is he cute, Danny? Please tell me he’s cute."

Danny made a face. "I don’t know, man. He’s tall. He’s got a nice suit."

"Tall. Nice suit." Evie turned back to Carrie with wide eyes. "Girl. Go. Go right now. This is your sign. The universe is apologizing for the cop show."

Carrie rolled her eyes, but she was laughing again. The heaviness in her chest lifted, just a little. For the first time all day, she felt something close to normal.

Maybe Evie was right. Maybe it was just some guy who’d seen her at a coffee shop and worked up the courage to say hi. Maybe the universe was throwing her a bone.

"Fine," she said. "I’ll go see what the mystery man wants."

"Report back," Evie ordered. "Every detail."

Carrie turned to the small, smudged mirror stuck to the side of the freezer door. She pulled out her hair tie and gathered her long red curls into a bun, twisting it tight and pinning it in place. She tucked the front of her white blouse back into the waistband of her black uniform skirt and smoothed down her apron.

She grabbed a menu from the stack on the counter and put on her best smile. The bright, easy one that made customers tip an extra five bucks.

Then she pushed through the swinging door and walked out onto the floor.

The booth by the window was in the back corner, half in the sunlight. A man sat alone in it with his back to the wall, facing the room. Long legs stretched out under the table. A sharp charcoal suit.

He was looking out the window.

"Hi there! Welcome to Marlowe’s," Carrie said brightly as she approached, holding out the menu. "I’m Carrie, and I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I start you off with something to—"

The man turned his head and looked up at her.

Carrie’s voice died in her throat.

Short blonde hair. A crooked nose. Pale bluish-gray eyes that didn’t quite point in the same direction.

No bruises. No split lip. No swelling. Not a single mark on him.

The menu slipped from her fingers and slapped against the table.

He smiled at her, slow and easy, like they were old friends.

"Hey there, Samantha."