Blame It on the Bachelor (22 page)

Dev spotted Pete over in the left front corner, and waved at him. Pete shot him a thumbs-up, letting him know that everything was cool tonight, no problems.

Dev mouthed a
thank you
and gestured for Pete to join him. He headed to his office, a tiny room that fit a small desk, two chairs and a file cabinet. In the only leftover space were stacked liquor boxes full of stuff for the bar. It was a bad idea to give the staff open access to them.

It wasn’t a great idea to give himself open access to them, either, but Dev unearthed the Johnnie Walker Black Label from the pile and pulled out a bottle.

“Uh-oh,” Pete said, as Dev slammed it onto his desk and went in search of a couple of cups. “What’s up, Gig?”

“Nothing.”

“Did your hot date not go well?”

“It was friggin’ perfect,” Dev said, slapping the cups onto his desk and unscrewing the top of the Black Label. He slopped some into both cups and pushed one toward Pete.

“Yeah, I can tell,” Pete said in mild tones. “Listen, bud. You don’t want to drink that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you really don’t. Remember how you’re not going to be that guy anymore? The boozehound who does stupid crap because he drinks hard liquor?”

“Mind your own business, Pete.”

“Funny,” his friend responded, “but you asked me to come here and mind
yours
tonight while you had a date.”

“Look, I’m only having one drink.”

“One triple. And that’s how it always starts.”

Dev sighed and looked into the amber liquid for a long time. Then he pushed the cup away. “Damn you, Pete.”

“Hey, you want to end up in some rehab joint?”

Dev shook his head. And it could easily come to that, he knew. He could handle wine and beer. But liquor needed to fade into history for him. It was as simple as that.

Recently, only a few days after Mark’s wedding, he’d started one morning with a pitcher of Bloody Marys, and ended up over at the medical school plastering the bulletin board outside the dean’s office with revealing pictures from Mark’s bachelor party. A great prank on his friend Adam. Except Adam hadn’t considered it very funny, and when Dev had sobered up, he’d realized it was an incredibly jerky thing to do.

“So, if your date was so perfect, then why are you in such a piss-poor mood?” Pete asked.

Dev reluctantly told him the tall fish tale.

Once he’d finished laughing his ass off, Pete was sympathetic in the way only guys can be. “You’re an idiot,” he said.

“Yeah, thanks. I’d figured that out all by myself.”

“You have to win back her trust.”

“How?” Dev asked hopelessly.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Pete said.

“You’re a lot of help.”

“You got an excuse to see her again? She leave her panties behind, or anything?”

“Not even a thread,” Dev said gloomily. “But she’s coming to the grand opening—”

“Well, there you go!”

“As my account manager.”

“Your what?”

Dev filled him in.

“Aw, jeez, McKee. You didn’t tell me that part. You’re an even bigger moron than I thought, man.”

Dev reached for the Black Label again, but Pete snatched it away. “None of that. You want to drink and dial? Drink and be a douche?”

Dev slumped in his chair.

“Tell you what. This grand opening is going to be a fantastic fiesta, and you’re the star of the show. You work the room, smile a lot, be confident and charm her all over again. Me and the guys, we’ll make sure to say great things about you—”

“Are there any?”

“—and show her a good time.”

“Not
too
good a time,” Dev said, with a threatening squint.

“Not like that, man. Would we do that to you?”

“Probably.”

“Okay, we would. Payback for the past. But we won’t. I’ll talk to the rest of the guys. We’ve got your back on this one.”

“I can’t thank you enough, man. She’s—” Dev stared at his shoes. “She’s real important to me. Hell if I know why, but she is.”

21

KYLIE SHOWED UP at Bikini at 3:00 p.m. Monday, without giving any advance warning. It was better to do it this way, so that Dev didn’t have a chance to obscure or hide anything about his records or finances that he might otherwise have obscured or hidden.

The nature of the bar-restaurant business already made it easy to skim off or hide cash, because so much of the stuff flowed in. Kylie wasn’t naive. Dev, with his ability to manipulate the truth, probably had a safe full of greenbacks that he didn’t intend to report to anyone, least of all the federal government.

Other than that, he’d probably have immaculate records that noted an appropriately low level of cash coming in.

Kylie pushed the hair off her forehead, straightened her skirt and pulled open Bikini’s front door. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, and she gratefully inhaled the cooler, dryer air. Outside, the heat and humidity were like a sticky blanket.

“Ah, it is the health inspector,” said a faintly mocking and heavily accented voice from behind the bar. She recognized one of Dev’s employees from the kitchen, the guy who’d made a spanking motion with his spatula the last time she’d been here.

“Yes,” she said, flushing and trying to remember what fake name she’d used. Katherine Something, she thought, but couldn’t be sure. “Is Mr. McKee here, please?”

“Momento,”
the guy said, wiping his hands on a towel. He emerged from behind the bar. “This way.” He gestured for her to follow him.

Kylie hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and did so. Dev was in his tiny office with one hand clamped on to the phone at his ear and the other clamped to his face in evident frustration. “No,” he said, “
not
cool. The grand opening is
this Saturday.
Your guys were supposed to be here last week. Then they were supposed to show this morning. They’re not here, and I still have trim carpenters coming in and then painters through Friday!”

He listened for a moment to whoever was on the other end of the line. “Diego. Listen to me, you sack of shit. I don’t care whether you and your little old
granny
have to get over here and finish the floor yourselves—you gotta make this happen. And you gotta make it happen starting in about an hour. I don’t
care
whether you’re behind on other jobs. I don’t care
what
crew you’ve gotta pull off
what
other job. Invitations are out, my whole business is riding on this, the bank is breathing down my neck. You get your asses over here
now.
”

He listened again.

“Yeah, not my problem.”

More listening.

“Okay, fine. Yes, I will make it worth their while if they work all night. But they’ve gotta show the hell up.
Yesterday.
” Devon slammed the phone into its cradle. “Motherfu—”

Spatula Guy cleared his throat. “Lady from health department is here, boss.”

Dev spun around in his chair, startled.

Spatula Guy winked, to Kylie’s annoyance. “You know, to inspect the ’frigerator again, eh?”

“Thank you, Maurizio. You can get on with the prep work for the bar, now.”

“Sure, boss.” The man gave an insolent two-fingered salute and sauntered away, but not before giving her a thorough once-over with his eyes.

“To what do I owe this honor?” Dev asked.

“The bank. I’m here to breathe down your neck,” Kylie said sweetly.

“I don’t remember you calling to make an appointment.”

She didn’t turn a hair. “No, but I figured I’d better look at your records before the grand opening.”

He nodded tersely. “Okay. You do that.” He rose and walked to the single filing cabinet. He pulled open the top drawer. “Have at it.”

She looked in to an overflowing, horrific mess of random receipts.

“The second drawer down is full, too,” Dev told her.

Kylie’s jaw worked, but she couldn’t even begin to express her feelings.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, when she hadn’t said anything for a minute or two.

“Have you ever heard of, say, Quicken?”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to get that. Been too busy.”

“Or maybe Excel?”

He shrugged.

“Or even an old-fashioned
ledger?
”

“Sorry you don’t approve, but this is my system so far.”

“This is not a system.” She ground the words out from between clenched teeth. “This is— This is
chaos.
”

“All the bar receipts are in these four tequila boxes over here,” he said as if he hadn’t heard her. “That’s every drink or potato skin that’s been sold since we opened a year ago.”

“Then what are these?” Kylie pointed at the file cabinet.

“Those are receipts for everything
bought
for the bar, from two-by-fours to Tanqueray.”

“Did you not file a tax return?”

“Got an extension. No time to deal with that crap.”

“I see.” Slowly she sank into the visitor’s chair, disbelief permeating every pore of her skin. She dropped her bag on the floor and dragged her hands down her face. “Dev, how did you plan on running a business while ignoring all your paperwork?”

“I was going to bring in a bookkeeper, but I can’t justify the cost of one yet.”

“How do you even
know
that?” Kylie stared from the file cabinet to the boxes and then back again.

“I keep a running total in my head of what we’ve spent versus what we’ve brought in.”

“Right,” Kylie said, nodding. “In your
head.
”

“Why the sarcasm?”

“Because that’s not possible, Dev! There are thousands of receipts here. Unless you’re some kind of Rain Man, you can’t have any idea of what’s going on with your business.”

“Bet me,” he said, his chin in the air.

“And I’ll tell you something else,” she said as if he hadn’t spoken. “There is no way in hell that I can authorize the second loan payment without having clear records of what’s going on with the money. Forget it.”

“Fine,” said Dev. “But I challenge you—I will give you approximate figures of what we’ve brought in and what’s been spent for each month, and I’ll bet you that they’re good—give or take a couple of hundred bucks.”

“Give or take a couple of hundred bucks,”
she repeated. “That’s not exactly chump change.”

Dev shrugged. “I’m an entrepreneur, not a bean counter.”

Dear God in Heaven. “Do you have Excel on that computer?” Kylie asked, pointing at his desk.

“Yeah. I think so.”

Kylie took a deep breath, then another. “Fine. Is every single receipt you have in those drawers and boxes?”

“Yeah. I’m real good about that. I pull ’em out of my desk and pockets every day before leaving.”

“How orderly of you.”

He shot her a glance full of annoyance, as if he had any right.