Page 92 of Claimed By the Deputies

“Who the hell are you?” he asks.

“Relax,” I chuckle. “Smoke your blunt in peace. I was just looking for a job.”

“Yeah, good luck with that. The Blue Salmon has the highest employee turnover in town. They’re terrible at keeping their staff.”

“How come?”

“The pay is lousy, and the customers are?—"

“Shady as fuck,” I cut him off. “I know. I live around these parts. I’ve seen them.”

“And they don’t tip worth shit,” he adds, shaking his head.

Greedy, lazy, and entirely unmotivated. This busboy could be my ticket in, if I play this wad of cash right.

“I take it you’ve got some shady fuckers in there as we speak,” I say.

“Pretentious bastards, too. One of the waiters had me change the water carafe three times before some Fitz guy would allow him to pour from it. Jesus.”

“What do you say we help each other out, then?” I ask.

The busboy gives me a curious look. “What do you mean? I can’t put in a good word for you with management or whatever, if that’s what you want. I’m from a temp agency myself.”

“This should cover more than today’s shift,” I say, holding out the cash. “I just need your uniform, and you can go home and finish the rest of that blunt in peace. Hell, get a pizza and some soda on the way, spoil yourself.”

The guy stares at the money for a moment, then looks at me, somewhat incredulous. “Are you for real?”

“Yeah. I just want your spot in there. What do you do, link the waiters to the kitchen, right?”

“Pretty much. I’m not allowed to get too close to the tables, though. I’m not as important as the waiters,” he says as he rolls his eyes. “Like it’s the frickin’ Pope or something.”

“Then do we have a deal? Nobody will even realize you’re gone. I’ll do a good job.”

He eyes me. “What’s your angle, lady?”

“I told you. I want a gig here. What better way than to prove myself in person?”

“Fine.” He takes his shirt and apron off and hands them over, while I give him the cash with a smile. He’s now in just his black pants and a white tank, slightly shivering in the building’s shadow, but he grins at me before walking away.

Once he’s out of sight, I slip the shirt and apron on, praying to God they don’t notice I’m wearing dark gray jeans and not black pants like the busboy was wearing.

My heart is pounding a million miles a minute as I slip through the back door. But to my astonishment, the kitchen staff are too busy to even notice me come in. All they see is a blue shirt and black apron and assume I’m supposed to be there.

I’ve worked restaurants before, so I’m familiar with the flow. I blend right in, taking over the busboy’s position effortlessly.

“Where’s Ramon?” one of the waiters asks me with an alarmed look on his face.

“Smoked out of his mind,” I reply. “I can help.”

“Whatever. Just bring in the pastry plates when they send them out of the kitchen. Mr. Fitz is getting antsy,” he says, and goes back to servicing the table.

I can’t see my subjects clearly from here, only the tops of their heads, and that’s how I intend to keep it. My hair is pulled into a tight bun at the nape of my neck with a hairnet on, just enough to make me indistinguishable from the rest of the staff.

Once the first platters start coming out of the kitchen, I carry them to the service carts. It only takes a few seconds to take my listening device out and mount it on the other side of the bar. I discreetly put my earpiece in while I continue with the platters.

Their voices come through, remarkably crisp and clear.

“They’re persistent,” Trevor says. “And my sources tell me they’re getting closer. What are you planning to do about that, Hammie?”

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