Severe Clear

49

Steve Rifkin had already talked to the food and beverage manager; now he was staring across the table at Michael Gennaro, the chief bartender. Rifkin looked for trembling, rapid respiration, sweat on the brow or lip, and rapid blinking. Nothing: cool, calm, and collected. He gave Gennaro a little smile. “Good morning,” he said.

Gennaro returned the little smile. “Good morning.”

“My name is Steve Rifkin. May I call you Michael?”

“Sure.”

“Your boss has given you a glowing report,” Rifkin said. “First, he liked the way your job interview went, then he liked the way you’ve done the job he gave you.”

“I’ve hardly done it yet,” Gennaro said. “Our first guests are just arriving, and nobody’s asked for a drink, so far.”

“I guess not,” Rifkin said, chuckling appreciatively. He looked at Gennaro’s employment application. “I guess you know just about everything about restaurants, don’t you?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Why did you leave the family business?”

“I had two older brothers who wouldn’t go first.”

“No room at the top, huh?”

“And my father is still running the place.”

“No room at even nearly the top.”

“You got it. A friend of mine introduced me to the Beverly Hills Hotel operation, and it worked.”

“But not in the restaurant end?”

“The bar is in the restaurant end,” Gennaro replied.

“What would your next logical promotion there have been?”

“Maybe maitre d’, but I’d have had to wait for the owner of that position to die-he would never have retired.”

“So you applied for a bartender’s job at The Arrington?”

“Not really. I was aiming for a managerial job.”

“So you invented one for yourself.”

“I showed them how I could be more useful in a supervisory position.”

“So what’s your next promotion possibility here?”

“Maitre d’, if the owner of that job dies. He’s only fifty-six.”

“Nothing else?”

“Sure, food and beverage manager. I mean, my boss isn’t going anywhere, but in a new hotel, things are fluid. He might get promoted.”

“An astute observation. You have access to the wine and spirits storage room, don’t you?”

“I’m in charge of it,” Gennaro replied. “Word is, you found something illegal in there.”

“You might say that,” Rifkin replied. “Any idea what it was?”

“I heard a guy came out of there in what looked like a diving suit. Lobsters?”

Rifkin laughed. “I’ll bet you know what that suit was.”

Gennaro shrugged. “I go to the movies, I watch TV.”

“Tell me, Michael, you’re a bright guy-speculate for me how whatever he found in there got in there.”

Gennaro tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, then he looked back at Rifkin. “How big was it?”

Rifkin held his hands out to demonstrate.

“No bigger than a case of wine, then? My guess would be that a supplier’s delivery man brought it in there on a hand truck with several cases of wine or liquor.”

“Any idea of which supplier?”

“We buy from four suppliers: I give them a list of what we want, and they bid. I always take the lowest price for, say, a case of Absolut Vodka or Knob Creek bourbon.”

“Same for the wines?”

“Yes, but if we specify a wine and a vintage, all four might not have it. If I don’t get a low enough bid, then I go to the Internet before I accept, then the delivery would be made by UPS.”

“What else do you do on the Internet, Michael?”

Gennaro tilted his head to one side in thought. “Shopping for clothes, shoes, sex toys, household appliances. I use Google to look for stuff.”

“E-mail?”

“Yeah, but not so much.”

“Why not?”

“I guess I don’t have all that many friends. In this business you work nights. It doesn’t lead to an athletic social life. The cell phone works better for me.”

“How many cell phones do you have?”

A flick of an eyebrow. “Ah, just one, an iPhone.”

“Like it?”

“Yeah, it does a lot more than I know how to do with it.”

Rifkin closed the file in front of him. “Well, I guess that’s about it. Thanks for your time, and I hope the job goes well for you here.” Rifkin held out his hand.

Gennaro shook it, then got up and took a step toward the door.

“Oh, Michael?”

Gennaro stopped and turned around. “Yeah?”

“What’s your religion?” Rifkin saw Gennaro’s jaw tighten.

“Catholic,” he replied.

“Thanks, Michael.” He gave the man a little wave and watched him go. Just before he closed the door he looked back.

Rifkin turned to his two agents, who were sitting at a nearby table. “I want a membership list of every mosque in L.A., starting with Studio City and spreading out from there. I don’t care how you get them.”