Spoiled Rotten by Mary Jackman Read Free Book Online

recommendation for doing laps around my living room, let alone a mile-long relay.
    Most wannabe restaurateurs think you have to work every weekend and evenings in order to run a tight ship. Not really. The restaurant is more likely to fall into trouble on a Monday or Tuesday when the only staff scheduled are fledgling waiters and second-string kitchen help (If for some bizarre reason, like the bus stops here and the place fills up, then heaven help.) The most experienced floor staff and kitchen people work Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, traditionally the busiest shifts, so I leave it up to them to run the show. Invariably, when I do try to help, I somehow manage to get underfoot and shooed out of the way.
    The name Walker’s Way Bistro was etched with white paint onto a wide expanse of plate-glass window that ran across the front of the building. Other than a band poster stuck to the front door, there was no recent evidence of foul play. The plate glass has had to be replaced so many times in the past that it eventually caused the insurance underwriters to levy an enormous deductible. This was to discourage me from filing any more claims and it worked. One more thing I expected to pay out of pocket. Crazies, bums, and dope fiends sadly have nothing better to do than smash my windows in the wee hours of the night. And in case you’re wondering, I am not an egomaniac. I named the place Walker’s Way because my last name is Walker and I hate making up names; hence the name Kitty, for the cat.
    I unlocked the front door of the restaurant, tilting my head to avoid the drooping steel chain that was attached to the top of it. Using ready-made cement, Rick had secured the other end of the safety cable into the brick surrounding the door. When he first showed me the chain, I asked him what he did with the ocean liner that it belonged to. It was a heavy son of a gun. He explained the chain was guaranteed not to snap (duh, no kidding).
    Two years ago, in the height of a nasty storm, the front door flew off its hinges and flipped end over end down the street, narrowly missing a station wagon with Oregon licence plates. I remember Rick running down the street after it and the looks on the occupants’ faces that silently screamed, “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
    Breakfast was not served Monday through Wednesday for fear of staff mutiny. It was a couple of hours before the front servers would be arriving and the dining room was empty. The kitchen staff was prepping in the back, but they may as well have been on the moon. They came in the back door, left by the back door, and unless they were dying of thirst and couldn’t terrorize one of the servers into bringing them beverages, they never ventured out front.
    Personally, I would have preferred leaving the front door open, but Rick convinced me locking it was better. Anyone could walk in and steal a tablecloth or even a table, for that matter, but as I tried to tell him, it was highly unlikely that would happen again.
    Ultimately, the real reason we locked the front door was because we got tired of finding people sitting at the tables. Heaven only knows how long people have sat there waiting for a menu. Granted, some of our waiters are slow, but if the there’s a mop with a bucket of dirty water in the middle of the floor, then — trust me when I say this people — you’re not getting one anytime soon.
    I could hear the kitchen staff busy preparing for a new week. Most of the desserts, salad dressings, and stocks would have been consumed over the busy weekend and needed replenishing. Without a head chef, there would be a lot more prep than usual.
    Before heading up to the office, I took a peek in the kitchen. Rick was talking to a bald man with the beginning of a pot belly who looked to be around forty years of age. He had a firm grip on a black leather briefcase and a cook’s knife pouch tucked under his arm, very