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“We go anywhere we want to.” Tomas, part Mexican, part Indian, and all mouth, ran a hand over the roof of the Jag. “Nobody’s telling us where we can and can’t hang out.”
“If you say so.”
“Business doin’ good, Mr. Falcon?” The smoke from Harlow’s cigarette drifted on the late-night breeze.
“Same as usual.”
“Been catching some great smells coming out that back door this week. You got a new cook?”
Every hair on his body stood on end. Jimmy forced himself not to move. “That’s right.” These three weren’t the violent threat some folks pictured when they thought about heroin addicts—only boys who had nowhere else to go and nobody who cared. That was why he’d once thought he had a chance to get them off the streets, out of this lousy life.
But the drug had defeated him in the battle for their souls. He wasn’t afraid of them, but he didn’t want them hassling Emma. Just one more reason he never should have hired her.
Harlow wasn’t going to let the subject drop. “You’re gettin’ real uptown for a dirty little hole in the wall. Next thing we know, you’ll be paintin’ the place.”
“Don’t worry—I don’t expect to get an award from the Denver beautification committee anytime soon.”
“Glad to hear it. Those types like to think our types live somewhere else, you know?” Harlow straightened away from the lamppost. He sounded almost…regretful.
But Jimmy had let that easy regret fake him out before. Harlow was a master con artist. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, it’s been a long day.” He wouldn’t open the car door until they left. And all of them knew it.
“That it has.” Ryan, the smallest of the bunch, was thin to the point of disappearing. The hunger in his eyes was not for food. “Man with a car like this must carry some extra change. Whaddaya say, Mr. F.? How about a loan?”
“I could manage fifty cents for some gum.”
Tomas barked a laugh. “Piss on that. As if gum wasn’t eighty freakin’ cents these days. Gimme a break, man.”
Despite his size, he moved fast. Jimmy looked up into the swarthy, sweating face just inches from his own. If Harlow was the brains of the group, Tomas was the muscle. And he had a bad temper. “Get out of my way.”
“I’m tellin’ you, man—”
Harlow put a hand on Tomas’s shoulder and jerked him backward, away from Jimmy. “Chill, Tommy. We’re not gonna shake down Mr. Falcon. He’s one of the good guys.”
“Like hell he is.”
“Harlow…” Ryan’s voice had started to shake. In the few minutes of the conversation, his skin had paled and his eyes had clouded.
“Yeah, Ry. I’m coming.” Harlow shrugged and gave Jimmy a conciliatory grin. “Sorry for the trouble, Mr. Falcon. We’ll let you get home and get some sleep.”
“Thanks.” Jimmy didn’t move until Harlow and friends started down the sidewalk toward the part of town where drugs were easier to score than ice-cream cones. Then, through the windshield, he watched until the three boys blended into the night. He reminded himself once again that he had tried with them. And failed.
Headed across town to his apartment, he turned on the seat warmer to ease the ache in his hip. He hadn’t been keeping up with therapy the past few months, so a ten-minute dance had set up cramps in his shredded muscles. Small price to pay, though, for a chance to hold Emma in his arms.
But he shouldn’t have kissed her. He’d known it ahead of time and ignored the knowledge. The very first time he’d ever dared, she’d just eaten a strawberry, brought back from Denver to the rez by her impractical, nearsighted, absentminded father. Jimmy had never tasted strawberries—they didn’t thrive in the arid canyonlands he’d grown up in. But that summer with Emma, he’d learned to crave the sweet, seedy fruit. Anytime since, when he’d allowed himself the indulgence of that special berry, he had thought of one special woman-child. And smiled.
He wasn’t smiling now. He was trying to figure out how to keep control so that tonight’s mistake didn’t happen again. The easiest option was to fire Emma. Get her out of the club, out of his life.
Yeah, right. Kick her when she was already down. He couldn’t do that to any woman.
Especially not to Emma.
He’d have to make himself scarce. Tiffany had worked for him long enough to know the liquor reps, the standing orders, the combination to the safe and where he kept the spare keys. She would handle the daily management duties as well as he could. Especially if he raised her pay.
That left only the nights—when the club was packed and Emma worked her magic in the kitchen. He’d stay out of her way, but he’d be sure to hang around. Harlow and his gang could not be allowed to hustle Emma. Unless something deep inside her had changed—and he could tell from her eyes that it hadn’t—she’d have no problem throwing money into the bottomless well where these boys lived with their habit.
She would try to help them and, most likely, fail. Jimmy didn’t want her hurt that way, didn’t want to see the disillusionment in her eyes when she realized she’d only been a mark. Emma put her whole heart into everything she did. She’d done it the summer they spent together, and she was doing it now, just cooking up sandwiches in his club.
Somehow he was going to have to keep Emma from getting burned. By these boys…
And by his own fierce, out-of-line desire.
“JIMMY HASN’T BEEN HERE very often during this last week.” Late Thursday morning, Emma sat down on a wobbly bar stool to watch Tiffany stack glassware.
“Nope. He said he was taking some days off.”
“Did he say why?” Emma didn’t really need to ask. Jimmy was avoiding her, embarrassed at being pressured into that kiss.
Tiffany shook her head. “He’s done it before. I think he goes for weeks without sleeping more than a couple of hours a night, and then crashes and sleeps for about a month.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a life.” Why would an accomplished and charming man live such a sterile existence?”
“I guess that’s the way he wants it.”
Emma surrendered to her curiosity. “Has he always lived alone?”
“As long as I’ve known him.”
Something loosened inside Emma’s chest that she tried very hard to ignore.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s a monk.” Tiffany’s smile was wicked. “There have been quite a few women in his life over the years.”
“I’m sure.” Her chest had tightened up again. She decided to change the subject. “How long have you known Jimmy?”
The bartender pondered. “I worked here for a couple of years before I got married. After the divorce I came back. So I guess that’s maybe five or six years.”
“Has Jimmy met your current…er…boyfriend?”
“Nope. No reason to. Brad’s not into jazz.” She grinned.
“But he likes the tips I get, so he doesn’t mind me working.”
“Does Brad work?”
“Off and on. He does demolition—taking down old buildings and stuff like that—but it’s kind of an unsteady job market unless you run your own company. Which is okay with Brad, because he doesn’t like life too predictable, anyway.”
“Ah.” If Tiffany didn’t mind supporting a slacker, who was Emma to protest? She propped her chin in her hands. “Well, if Jimmy isn’t here, he can’t very well know what’s going on, can he?”
Tiffany shot her a suspicious glance. “What’s going on?”
The idea had occurred to her in the cab on the way home last night. “Suppose I changed the menu. He wouldn’t realize until sometime during the evening. And by then, he’d see how much the customers enjoyed something new.”
“Emma Garrett, you are nuts.” The bartender shook her head. “Jimmy would kill you for something like that. He’d kill me, too, for letting you.”
“But you know I’m right. Just think what this place could be with the right food, new furniture, paint—”
“Whoa! Furniture?” Tiffany backed into the counter opposite the bar, her hands held up as if to ward off danger. “Not another word. I want to be able to tell Jimmy I didn’t know a thing about it!”
Before noon, Emma had ordered a minimum of dishware from a local shop and billed it to her credit card, along with knives, forks and spoons. If the idea failed, she wouldn’t want Jimmy to bear the loss. Her savings could stand the damage. And though there would be more dirty dishes to deal with, the club’s dishwashing machine functioned well enough to make the gamble worthwhile.
From their grocer, she requested the usual supplies for sandwiches, but added mixed greens for salads, goat cheese and French bread. And chicken breasts—they were on special and would be easy to marinate and serve with sauce.
The woman on the other end of the line took the order without comment. After a moment’s silence, she said, “Now where did you tell me this was for?”
“The Indigo.”
“Jimmy’s place?”
“That’s right.”
“Did Jimmy die?”
“Of course not. Why do you ask?”
The woman clucked her tongue. “He’s the last guy in town I’d expect to serve fancy salads. I might have to show up tonight just to see that for myself!”
Emma prepped food for several hours, then went back to the hotel to change. When she returned at four, she noticed a young man leaning against the corner of the building, next to the alley. As she crossed the street, he turned. Harlow.
He threw away his cigarette and came toward her at an easy walk. “Hey, Emma. How are you this afternoon?”
“Well, thank you. I must say, you disappeared rather quickly last week.”
His grin could melt sugar. “I make it a point to leave fast. Never can tell what you’ll get blamed for if you hang around too long.”
She pushed open the front door to The Indigo. “Would you like to come in?”
He glanced up and down the empty street. “Sure. For a minute, anyway.”
As they stepped inside, Tiffany emerged from the back hallway. “Hey, Harlow. How’s it going?”
“Good. What’s Brad doing these days?”
Tiffany hesitated. “Uh…not much. He’s between jobs.”
Harlow laughed. “Me, too.”
The front door opened again. Emma saw the boy freeze, then turn slowly to face the newcomer. She wondered what he expected Jimmy to do to him.
But a heavyset man stepped inside, not Jimmy. “I got a food delivery. Where do you want it?”
“In the alley, please. Tiffany, would you unlock the door?”
In fifteen minutes, with Harlow helping, the boxes of groceries sat on the kitchen table. Emma surveyed what she’d done with a sudden tremor of doubt. This was a lot of food. If it didn’t sell…
Nonsense. “I should get those chicken breasts in the marinade.”
Somehow Harlow became the unofficial kitchen boy, stowing the supplies where she directed. The new dishes were delivered, and he put those away, as well, after she washed them. He worked efficiently, always whistling a tune underneath his breath. Soon enough, the kitchen was back to normal, except for a large bowl of salad greens soaking in cold water.
The daylight in the alley had nearly disappeared. “I’d better be going,” Harlow said. “Mr. Falcon’ll show up soon.”
Emma put her hand on the thin bones of his arm. “Let me make you something to eat first.”
“That’s okay. I’m good to go.”
“But you’ve done a great deal of work this afternoon. Please, it’s the least I can do.”
He shook his head. “I’d like to, Emma. Your cooking is the best. But I don’t want to be here when the boss comes in. That’ll be bad for you and me. I can take it, but you shouldn’t have to.”
“Well, then, at least let me pay you. I won’t feel right if I don’t.”
Again, that sweet grin. “I wouldn’t want you feeling bad. Just a couple of bucks for a burger is plenty.”
He’d worked for two hours. She gave him forty dollars—twice what she got paid, but her savings would make up the difference. In any event, she hadn’t taken this job for the money. “Have a really good meal tonight. Vegetables, too.”
“Yes, ma’am!” He saluted her from the door to the alley. His smile faded and his expression turned somber. “You’re something special. Thanks.”
Emma stared out the screen door for several minutes after he disappeared. Jimmy had warned her about Harlow, and his friend. But the boy she’d seen today seemed neither desperate nor dangerous. Just in need of help. Almost eager, in fact, to be helped. Perhaps he wanted to change his life and didn’t know quite how to begin. Or how to ask.
“If we wait until we’re asked to help,” her mother had said more than once, “many good people with too much pride will be lost.” Not long after Emma turned fifteen, Naomi Garrett had given her life for those good people—a victim of dengue fever, contracted while nursing the critically ill. Emma’s dad had suffered recurrent malaria attacks for years, thanks to his work in Africa studying tribal dialects. Between them, they’d left her a very big example to live up to.
If anything positive were to come out of the end of her university career, Emma thought it might be the chance to provide the kind of help her parents had modeled for her. At least, she could try.
She smiled ruefully, thinking of her father’s jokes about Emma-Knows-Best. Perhaps her penchant for meddling in other people’s affairs could finally be turned to good use.
THE MUSIC WAS HOT and heavy by the time Jimmy showed up at the club. He made his way down the bar, greeting regulars with a handshake, checking out the room in general. An okay crowd for a Thursday night. Big enough to keep him occupied somewhere besides the kitchen.
Tiffany brought him a whiskey as he leaned against the end of the bar. Darren whizzed by, carrying a loaded tray on his shoulder. “Upper-body strength,” he muttered. “I shoulda been lifting weights.”
The comment didn’t make sense until a break between sets, when Jimmy heard the clatter of dishes at a nearby table, the ping of knives and forks. The next time Darren came by, Jimmy stopped him.
“What’s the deal with the food?”
The server shrugged. “Emma said to mention salads and lemon chicken when I took the orders. We got more people ordering that now than sandwiches.” He shifted under the weight of the tray. “I gotta dump this, boss, or drop it.”
Jimmy waved him away. When Tiffany worked her way down to him again, he called her over. “Emma changed the menu?”
The bartender avoided his eyes. “Yeah. The customers seem to like the variety.”
“You didn’t think I might want to know about this?”
